T HERE lies a vale in Ida, lovelier Than all the valleys of Ionian hills.
The swimming vapour slopes athwart the glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine to pine, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway down Hang rich in flowers, and far below them roars The long brook falling thro' the clov'n ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. The crown of Troas. Floated her hair or seem'd to float in rest. O mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida, Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.