Atalanta, represented as a Huntress with her bow

A Huntress with her silver bow,
And radiant curls upon the snow
Of a young brow, whose open look
Was fair and pure as the clear brook
On which the moonlight plays; 'tis she,
Companion of the forest tree,
Of Scyrus, she whose foot of wind
Left stag and arrow far behind,
Whose heart, like air or sunshine free,
Recked but to scorn what love might be.
"My soul is far too proud for love;
I would be like yon lark above,
With will and power to wing my way,
With none to watch and none to stay;
And Love's chain would be sad to me
As were a cage, free bird, to thee.
Ill would it suit a heart like mine
To live upon another's look;
III could I bear the doubts, the griefs,
The all that anxious love must brook.
Thou bright winged god! I mock thy chain,
Thy arrow points to me in vain."
But maiden vows are like the rose,
Bending with every breeze that blows;
Or like the sparkles on the stream,
Changing with every changing gleam;
Or like the colours on her cheek,
Or like the words her lips will speak,
Each firm resolve will melt away
Like ice before a sunny ray.
Soon that young Huntress of the grove
Bartered her liberty for love,
And sighed and smiled beneath the thrall
Of him whose rule is over all. ⁠