Yea, so doth Hypsipylê pray, as her clinging fingers strain
The hand of Jason, and stream her tears with the parting-pain:
‘Go thou, and thee may the Gods with thy comrades scathless bring
Back to the home-land, bearing the Fleece of Gold to the king,
Even as thou wilt, and thine heart desireth: and this mine isle, {890}
And my father’s sceptre withal, shall wait for thee the while,
If haply, thine home-coming won, thou wouldst choose to come hither again.
Thou couldst gather from other cities a host unnumbered of men
Lightly—ah, but the longing shall never awaken in thee;
Yea, and mine own heart bodeth that this shall never be!