κάλλος ἀνεπιτήδευτον, ἀβάπτιστον, αὐτόχρουν,
ἔβαπτε τὴν λευκότητα ῥοδόχροια πυρσίνη,
ὡς εἴ τις τὸν ἐλέφαντα βάψει λαμπρᾷ πορφύρᾳ.
δειρὴ μακρά, κατάλευκος, ὅθεν ἐμυθουργήθη
κυκνογενῆ τὴν εὔοπτον Ἑλένην χρηματίζειν,
it is like seeing stones rolled up a mountain,[[128]] on whose summit they are to be built into a gorgeous edifice; but which all roll down of themselves on the other side. What picture does this crowd of words leave behind? How did Helen look? No two readers out of a thousand would receive the same impression of her.
But political verses by a monk are, it is true, no poetry. Let us hear Ariosto describe his enchantress Alcina:[[129]]—
Di persona era tanto ben formata,
Quanto mai finger san pittori industri.
Con bionda chioma, lunga e annodata,