Rather than cargo on cargo of corpses undead should be wafted[267] Over the ravening sea to the pitiless monster of Creta,-- Leaving the curvèd strand Piræan, and wooing the breezes, Theseus furrowed the deep to the dome superb of the tyrant. Then as the maid Ariadne beheld him with glances of longing,-- Princess royal of Creta Minoan, tender, sequestered,-- Locked in a mother's embrace, in seclusion virginal, fragrant, Like some myrtle set by streaming ways of Eurotas, Like to the varied tints that Spring invites with her breezes,-- Then, as with eager gaze she looked her first upon Theseus, Never a whit she lowered her eyes nor ceased to consume him, Ere to the core profound her breast with love was enkindled. --God-born boy, thou pitiless heart, provoker of madness, Mischievous, mingling care with the fleeting pleasure of mortals,-- Goddess of Golgi, thou, frequenter of coverts Idalian, In what wildering seas ye tossed the impassionate maiden Ever a-sighing,--aye for the fair-haired stranger a-sighing! Ah, what ponderous fears oppressed her languishing bosom, How, more pallid than gold her countenance flashed into whiteness, What time Theseus marched unto death or to glory undying, Manful, minded to quell the imbruted might of the monster! Not unaided, however, did he undertake the task; for Ariadne, apprehensive lest he might lose his way in the dædalian labyrinth, furnished him with a thread, the gift of Vulcan, which, unrolled by Theseus as he entered the maze, should enable him on his return to retrace his former path. Meanwhile-- Offering artless bribes, Ariadne invoked the Immortals, Kindled voiceless lip with unvoicèd tribute of incense, Suppliant, not in vain: for, like to an oak upon Taurus, Gnarlèd, swinging his arms,--like some cone-burthenèd pine tree Oozing the life from his bark, that, riven to heart by the whirlwind, Wholly uprooted from earth, falls prone with extravagant ruin, Perishes, dealing doom with precipitate rush of its branches,-- So was the Cretan brute by Theseus done to destruction, E'en so, tossing in vain his horns to the vacuous breezes. Then with abundant laud he turned, unscathed from the combat, Theseus,--guiding his feet unsure by the filament slender, Lest as he threaded paths circuitous, ways labyrinthine, Some perverse, perplexing, erratic alley might foil him. Why should I tarry to tell how, quitting her sire, Ariadne Quitting the sister's arms, the infatuate gaze of the mother,-- She whose sole delight, whose life, was her desperate daughter,-- How Ariadne made less of the love of them all than of Theseus? Why should I sing how sailing they came to the beaches of Dia,-- White with the foam,--how thence, false-hearted, the lover departing Left her benighted with sleep, the Minoïd, princess of Creta?