Song.

"Sleep, like a lover, woo thee, Isabel! And golden dreams come to thee, Like a spell By some sweet angel drawn! Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber, Setting stars its moments number, So, sleep thou on! The night above thee broodeth, Hushed and deep; But no dark thought intrudeth On the sleep Which folds thy senses now. Gentle spirits float around thee, Gentle rest hath softly bound thee, For pure art thou! And now thy spirit fleeth On rare wings, And fancy's vision seeth Holy things In its high atmosphere. Music strange thy sense unsealeth, And a voice to thee revealeth What angels hear. Thou'lt wake when morning breaketh, Pure and calm; As one who mourns, awaketh When the balm Of peace hath on him fell. Purer thoughts shall stir within thee, Softer cords to virtue win thee— Farewell! Farewell!"