She sleeps; her head is pillowed where, On the green turf, with blossoms fair, The hawthorn blows: Strange angel maid, for whom this earth Hath found no dowry from her birth Save only woes. But faintly on her youthful face A sunny smile we still may trace, Then, lightly tread; she sleeps—'tis well, Break not her golden vision's spell! It may be that some gentle strain, Whose tones the prisoned soul enchain, Bids her rejoice; E'en while she sleepeth, she may hear Fond love-words murmured in her ear, Sweet memory's voice. And then the poor deserted child Seems loved and blest, by dreams beguiled. Oh! lightly tread: she sleeps—'tis well, Break not her golden vision's spell! Alas! that vision must be brief, And her young heart's o'erwhelming grief Will be more deep; Yet on each feature there is peace,— Ye woodland birds, your warbling cease, Still let her sleep And pray we that our Angel's care May love and guard that maiden fair. Oh! lightly tread: she sleeps—'tis well, Break not her golden vision's spell! |