But mark with what a front of fearOrion lowers. Ah! well I knowHow Hadria glooms, how falsely clearThe west-winds blow.Let foemen's wives and children feelThe gathering south-wind's angry roar,The black wave's crash, the thunder-peal,The quivering shore.So to the bull Europa gaveHer beauteous form, and when she sawThe monstrous deep, the yawning grave,Grew pale with awe.That morn of meadow-flowers she thought,Weaving a crown the nymphs to please:That gloomy night she look'd on noughtBut stars and seas.Then, as in hundred-citied Crete She landed,—“O my sire!” she said,“O childly duty! passion's heatHas struck thee dead.