ONCE between Argos and Mycaenæ shone
Half-veiled in myrtle and mysterious pine,
The ivory splendors of that holy shrine,
Wherein embowered, majestic, and alone
Her sculptured brow with wavering locks o'erblown,
As if by airs ethereal and divine,
Smiled the calm goddess of Olympian line,
Girt by awed silence, like a sacred zone:
Save that mild murmurings sounding vague and far,
From suppliant women--through frail-hearted dread
Touched the shy pulses of that strange repose,
Till the last petal dropped from sunset's rose,
And gleamed through twilight, like a flawless star,
The chastened glory of proud Hera's head!
