1

There is a voice in the silent night
That whispers in my dreaming ear
Such thrilling accents of delight,
That, oh! when morning's beams appear,
I hate the dawn, for it breaks the spell,
And hushes the voice I lov'd so well.

2

There is an eye in the darkest hour
That ever twined the bands of sleep,
Still watching me with guardian power,
And when I wake, I wake to weep;
For no longer then it beams on me,
A wanderer o'er the dark blue sea.

3

The form that hovers around my pillow,
When slumber lulls this aching head,
In my native land, far over the billow,
Hath long been mouldering with the dead:
And the wand of sleep can alone restore
The perish'd one, so lov'd of yore.

4

Louisa! though on ocean's breast,
Far from my land, and from the grave,
Where, early called, thy relics rest,
'Tis mine to wander o'er the wave,
Yet oft in dreams I seek that spot —
Lost one! thou ne'er canst be forgot!

5

Oh! who shall bind the chainless mind?
Oh! who shall curb the spirit's soar?
He who can still the raving wind
And hush the ocean's angry roar,
His haud alone from my breast can tear
Thy image, fondly cherish'd there.