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!Shameless I left my father's home;Shameless I cheat the expectant grave;O heaven, that naked I might roamIn lions' cave!