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THE SLEEPER.
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Ye know not what ye do,
That call the slumberer back,
From the world unseen by you
Unto life's dim faded track.
Her soul is far away,
In her childhood's land, perchance,
Where her young sisters play,
Where shines her mother's glance.
Some old sweet native sound
Her spirit haply weaves;
A harmony profound
Of woods with all their leaves;
A murmur of the sea,
A laughing tone of streams:—
Long may her sojourn be
In the music-land of dreams!
