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The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all
grace Of movement, and the charm of married brows.'
“ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He prest the blossom of his lips to mine, And added • This was cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the Gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus ; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom 'twere due : But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes to-day Pallas and Aphrodite, claiming each This meed of fairest. Thou, within the cave Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld, unheard Hear all, and see thy Paris judge of Gods.
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon : one silvery cloud Had lost his way between the piney sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they came,
Naked they came to that smooth-swarded bower,
way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarled boughs With bunch and berry and flower thro' and thro'.
“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o’er him flow'd a golden cloud, and lean'd Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her, to whom Coming thro' Heaven, like a light that grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the Gods Rise
for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestion'd, overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, ‘from many a vale And river-sunder'd champaign cloth'd with corn, Or labour'd mines undrainable of ore.
Honour,' she said, and homage, tax and toll,
O mother Ida, harken ere I die.
“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
She ceased, and Paris held the costly fruit
Out at arm's-length, so much the thought of power
cheek Kept watch, waiting decision, made reply.
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power, (power of herself Would come uncall’d for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.'
“ Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.
“ Here she ceased, And Paris ponder’d, and I cried, “O Paris, Give it to Pallas !' but he heard me not,
Or hearing would not hear me, woe is me!
“O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. Idalian Aphrodite beautiful, Fresh as the foam, new-bathed in Paphian wells,