美丽的少女，你徒劳地要求，我的笔应该试着用“降临”的笔调，遵从真理不变的法则，试着用你的笔调来画。我的确拥有那慷慨的胸怀，为人类的苦难哭泣，那被友谊的魅力所鼓舞的心灵，那被活泼的想象所激发的灵魂，生命的气息，生动的眼睛，流动的智慧，敏锐的回答——要描绘这些闪耀的美，可能需要一支比我的笔更高贵的笔。然而，多么可靠的笔触能吸引美人，她像稍纵即逝的空气，像屈服于力量的柳树，在大风的指引下，不抵抗不幸的力量，随着时辰的变化而变化。现在，它们在平原上欢快地嬉戏，用欢快的旋律把树林迷住了;他们不知道为什么被打扰，悲伤的泪珠在他们眼里颤抖:他们被领着走过虚无的生命的飘忽之舞，他们是一时心血来潮的傻瓜，是偶然机会的奴隶。从我这里，我并不是一个以善良著称的人，不要期待赞美，只期望讽刺;画不出你的画，而不是接受一个寓言。一天早晨，在Æsop喧闹的时间里，当万物都在押韵地谈论着，一阵春光吹出的云，在晶莹的溪水上袅袅升起。黎明，她那东方的红晕蔓延开来，把它清澈的裙摆染成红色，把它的褶褶用闪光的彩带广泛地摆动，把东方的天空欢快地划破;在朝阳的照耀下，大海的宽宽的镜子漂浮着。 Pleased, o'er the wave it hung in air, Survey'd its glittering glories there, And fancied, dress'd in gorgeous show, Itself the brightest thing below: For clouds could raise the vaunting strain, And not the fair alone were vain. Yet well it knew, howe'er array'd, That beauty, e'en in clouds, might fade, That nothing sure its charms could boast Above the loveliest earthly toast; And so, like them, in early dawn Resolved its picture should be drawn, That when old age with length'ning day Should brush the vivid rose away, The world should from the portrait own Beyond all clouds how bright it shone. Hard by, a painter raised his stage, Far famed, the Copley[1] of his age. So just a form his colours drew, Each eye the perfect semblance knew; Yet still on every blooming face He pour'd the pencil's flowing grace; Each critic praised the artist rare, Who drew so like, and yet so fair. To him, high floating in the sky Th' elated Cloud advanced t' apply. The painter soon his colours brought, The Cloud then sat, the artist wrought; Survey'd her form, with flatt'ring strictures, Just as when ladies sit for pictures, Declared "whatever art can do, My utmost skill shall try for you: But sure those strong and golden dies Dipp'd in the radiance of the skies, Those folds of gay celestial dress, No mortal colours can express. Not spread triumphal o'er the plain, The rainbow boasts so fair a train, Nor e'en the morning sun so bright, Who robes his face in heav'nly light. To view that form of angel make, Again Ixion would mistake,[2] And justly deem so fair a prize, The sovereign Mistress of the skies," He said, and drew a mazy line, With crimson touch his pencils shine, The mingling colours sweetly fade, And justly temper light and shade. He look'd; the swelling Cloud on high With wider circuit spread the sky, Stretch'd to the sun an ampler train, And pour'd new glories on the main. As quick, effacing every ground, His pencil swept the canvas round, And o'er its field, with magic art, Call'd forth new forms in every part. But now the sun, with rising ray, Advanced with speed his early way; Each colour takes a differing die, The orange glows, the purples fly. The artist views the alter'd sight, And varies with the varying light; In vain! a sudden gust arose, New folds ascend, new shades disclose, And sailing on with swifter pace, The Cloud displays another face. In vain the painter, vex'd at heart, Tried all the wonders of his art; In vain he begg'd, her form to grace, One moment she would keep her place: For, "changing thus with every gale, Now gay with light, with gloom now pale, Now high in air with gorgeous train, Now settling on the darken'd main, With looks more various than the moon; A French coquette were drawn as soon." He spoke; again the air was mild, The Cloud with opening radiance smiled; With canvas new his art he tries, Anew he joins the glitt'ring dies; Th' admiring Cloud with pride beheld Her image deck the pictured field, And colours half-complete adorn The splendor of the painted morn. When lo, the stormy winds arise, Deep gloom invests the changing skies; The sounding tempest shake