As when in flowerful gardens, lofty-girt
With thicket-hedge of ilex, oak, and vine,
Where northern breezes do no mortal hurt,
And warmer suns have constant leave to shine,
A tender sapling, be it larch or pine,
Shoots always upward with a daily spirt,
Thanks to the woven boughs that round it twine,
Thanks to the shelter of its leafy skirt:
So in a tranquil and secluded place,
Where never pierced the faintest note of harm,
The Argive hero grew and waxt apace,
Enclosed and compassed by Alcmena's arm;
And knew not as he watcht the mother's-face
The mother's-love that fenced him from alarm.