Page:Poems (Bryant, 1821).djvu/36



night winds howl’d—the billows dash’d

Against the tossing chest;—

And Danaë, to her broken heart,

Her slumbering infant prest.

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 moon beams smile,

And tremble on the main;

But dark, within my floating cell,

To me they smile in vain.

Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm,

And thy long locks are dry;