O’er thy bright locks while angry winds are lashing
The storm-chafed spray, still sleeps thy careless eye:
Little thou heedest, though the waves be dashing
Insanely by.
Wrapped in thy purple cloak—my breast thy pillow—
Thou driftest helplessly—the ocean’s toy—
Rocked in thy slumbers by the rolling billow—
My little boy!
Did not this peril at thy heart lie lightly,
Unto thy little ear my words would creep: