TRANSLATION
OF A
FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.
The 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,
