one silvery cloud
Had _lost his way_ among the pined hills:
They came--_all three_--the Olympian goddesses.
Naked they came--

* * * * * *

How beautiful they were! too beautiful
To look upon; but Paris was to me
_More lovelier_ than all the world beside.
_O mother Ida, hearken ere I die._'--p. 56.

In the place where we have indicated a pause, follows a description,
long, rich, and luscious--Of the three naked goddesses? Fye for
shame--no--of the 'lily flower violet-eyed,' and the 'singing pine,' and
the 'overwandering ivy and vine,' and 'festoons,' and 'gnarled boughs,'
and 'tree tops,' and 'berries,' and 'flowers,' and all the _inanimate_
beauties of the scene. It would be unjust to the _ingenuus pudor_ of the
author not to observe the art with which he has veiled this ticklish
interview behind such luxuriant trellis-work, and it is obvious that it
is for our special sakes he has entered into these local details,
because if there was one thing which 'mother Ida' knew better than
another, it must have been her own bushes and brakes. We then have in
detail the tempting speeches of, first--

'The imperial Olympian,
With arched eyebrow smiling sovranly,
Full-eyed Here;'

secondly of Pallas--

'Her clear and bared limbs
O'er-thwarted with the brazen-headed spear,'

and thirdly--

'Idalian Aphrodite ocean-born,
Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian _wells_--'

for one dip, or even three dips in one well, would not have been enough
on such an occasion--and her succinct and prevailing promise of--

'The fairest and most loving _wife_ in Greece;'--

upon evil-hearted Paris's catching at which prize, the tender and chaste
Oenone exclaims her indignation, that she herself should not be
considered fair enough, since only yesterday her charms had struck awe
into--

'A wild and wanton pard,
Eyed like the evening-star, with playful tail--'

and proceeds in this anti-Martineau rapture--

'_Most_ loving is _she_?'
'Ah me! my mountain shepherd, that my arms
Were wound about thee, and my hot lips prest
Close--close to thine in that quick-falling dew
Of _fruitful_ kisses ...
Dear mother Ida! hearken ere I die!--p. 62.

After such reiterated assurances that she was about to die on the spot,
it appears that Oenone thought better of it, and the poem