That morn of meadow-flowers she thought,Weaving a crown the nymphs to please:That gloomy night she look'd on noughtBut stars and seas.Then, as in hundred-citied Crete She landed,—“O my sire!” she said,“O childly duty! passion's heatHas struck thee dead.Whence came I? death, for maiden's shame,Were little. Do I wake to weepMy sin? or am I pure of blame,And is it sleepFrom dreamland brings a form to trickMy senses? Which was best? to goOver the long, long waves, or pickThe flowers in blow?O, were that monster made my prize,How would I strive to wound that brow,How tear those horns, my frantic eyesAdored but now!