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, in the carven chest,

The winds that blew and waves in wild unrest

Smote her with fear, she, not with cheeks unwet,

Her arms of love round Perseus set,

And said: "Ο child, what grief is mine!

But thou dost slumber, and thy baby breast

Is sunk in rest,

Here in the cheerless brass-bound bark,

Tossed amid starless night and pitchy dark.

Nor dost thou heed the scudding brine

Of waves that wash above thy curls so deep,

Nor the shrill winds that sweep,—

Lapped in thy purple robe's embrace,

Fair little face!

But if this dread were dreadful too to thee,

Then wouldst thou lend thy listening ear to me;

Therefore I cry,—Sleep, babe, and sea, be still,

And slumber our unmeasured ill!

Oh, may some change of fate, sire Zeus, from thee

Descend, our woes to end!

But if this prayer, too overbold, offend

Thy justice, yet be merciful to me!"