While from her cold, pale cheek, as Theseus slept,
Dropt the fast tear.
And round her little boy, with closer strain,
Her folding arm the desolate mother flung,
And to the heedless winds her humble plain
Half said, half sung.
“Sweetly thou restest in thy joyless dwelling,
And slumber sealeth up thy spirit mild,
Though the dark waves be far around thee swelling,
Perseus, my child.