V

Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle child!

The rocking of the boat thou fearest,

And the cold spray and the clamour wild?—

There, sit between us two, thou dearest—

Me and thy mother—well we know

The storm at which thou tremblest so,

With all its dark and hungry graves,

Less cruel than the savage slaves

Who hunt us o'er these sheltering waves.