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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 sister's 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!
Each voice of love is there,
Each gleam of beauty fled,
Each lost one still more fair—
Oh! lightly, lightly tread!
