Yet even there in peace she might not be:
There was a nymph, OEnone, in the hills,
The daughter of a River-God was she,
Of Cebren,--that the mountain silence fills
With murmur'd music, for the countless rills
Of Ida meet him, dancing to the plain, -
Her Paris wooed, yet ignorant of ills,
Among the shepherd's huts, nor wooed in vain.
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