When, upon the well-wrought chest,
Fiercely beat the howling wind,
And the ocean's heaving breast
Filled with terror Danaë's mind;
All in tears, her arm she throws
Over Perseus, as he lay
O, my babe, she said, what woes
On thy mother's bosom weigh!
Thou dost sleep with careless breast,
Slumbering in this dreary home,
Thou dost sweetly take thy rest,
In the darkness and the gloom.
In thy little mantle there,
Passing wave thou dost not mind,
Dashing o'er thy clustering hair,
Nor the voices of the wind.
Yet if thou, my beauteous one!
Felt the weight of this deep woe,
Not unconscious would my son
Hear his mother's sorrows now.
Yet sleep on, my babe, I pray,
Sleep thou too, tumultuous deep,
And th' unmeasured cares that stay
On my heart, let them too sleep!
Father Jove! I ask of thee,
Vain their evil counsels make!
And, though bold the prayer may be,
Right my wrongs, for Perseus' sake.
