The night winds howled, the billows dashed
Against the tossing chest,
As Danaë to her broken heart
Her slumbering infant pressed.
"My little child"—in tears she said—
"To wake and weep is mine,
But thou canst sleep—thou dost not know
Thy mother's lot, and thine.
"The moon is up, the moonbeams smile—
They tremble on the main;
But dark, within my floating cell,
To me they smile in vain.
"Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,
Thy clustering locks are dry;
Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust,
Nor breakers booming high.
"As o'er thy sweet unconscious face
A mournful watch I keep,
I think, didst thou but know thy fate,
How thou wouldst also weep.
"Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep, ye winds,
That vex the restless brine—
When shall these eyes, my babe, be sealed
As peacefully as thine!"