Vainly does the west wind seek
To recall upon her cheek
How the red rose used to break
In her native isle—
Breaking with a lovely flush;
But her cheek has lost its blush
And her lip its smile:
Once how fair they used to spring
For the young Athenian King!
Desolate—how desolate—
Does the Cretan lady wait
On the beach forlorn, who late
In a palace dwelt.
They will not—the coming waves—
Watch her pleasure like the slaves
Who before her knelt;
And the least sign was command
From her slight but royal hand.
Lovely was the native bower
Where she dwelt a guarded flower,
In her other happier hour,
Ere love grew to pain.
Mid these grey rocks may she roam,
For the maiden hath no home—
None will have again.
Never more her eyes will meet
Welcome from her native Crete.
Little did that Princess fear,
When a thousand swords were near,
Where no other was her peer,
That an hour was nigh,
When her hands would stretch in vain
Helpless to the unpitying main,
To the unpitying sky—
Earth below and heaven above
Witness to the wrongs of Love.
On the white and sounding surge,
In the dark horizon's verge,
Does a vessel seem to urge
Fast her onward way.
And the swelling canvass spread,
Glitters in the early red
Of the coming day;
’Tis as if that vessel bore
All the sunshine from the shore.
Hath the young King left her side—
She but yesterday his bride—
Who for his sake cross'd the tide,
Gave him love and life?
He hath left her far behind
To the warring wave and wind.
But what is their strife,
To the war within the heart,
Which beholdeth him depart?
