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!"