Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/62

 Ah, who will harbour her? Ah, who will save
 * The fugitive from pangs that rack and tear;
 * Who, finding rest nor refuge anywhere,

Seems doomed to be her unborn offspring's grave;
 * The seed of Jove, murdered before their birth—
 * Did not the sea, more merciful than earth,

Bid Delos stand—that wandering isle of Ocean—
 * Stand motionless upon the moving foam,
 * To be the exile's wave-encircled home,

And lull her pains with leaves in drowsy motion,
 * Where the soft-boughed olive sighing
 * Bends above the woman lying
 * And in spasms of anguish crying,
 * Shuddering through her mortal frame.
 * As from dust is struck the flame
 * Which shall henceforth beam sublime
 * Through the firmament of Time?

Oh, balmy Island bedded on the brine,
 * Harbour of refuge on the tumbling seas,