She sleeps within a blooming bower,
And around her is many a summer flower,
And the fragrant winds that wander there
Stir the wavy curls of her auburn hair,
That is wreath'd with flowers of jessamine meek : -
There's a smile on her lip, and a blush on her cheek ;
And of something sweet she dreameth.

Is she dreaming now of her native home,
And the spots where in childhood she loved to roam ?
Is she calling back the sportive hours
When she wove her garlands of fresh wild flowers,
When her soul dwelt as free in its own sweet world,
As the wind that waves her ringlets curI'd ?
No ;-not of these she dreameth.

Or does she dream of that blessed shore
Where grief and tears shall be no more,
Where nought can go but what hath shown
A spirit as guileless and pure as her own,
Where never was known a sorrow or crime,
And Joy feels not the bonds of time ?
Not of this-not of this she dreameth.

Is her spirit now, with a dreamer's scope,
Passing o'er the sunny bowers of Hope,
And winging its way, with an eagle's flight,
Thro' her skies that smile in unclouded light,
Far away from the scenes of mortal strife,
And forgetting awhile the shackles of life ?
Not of these-not of these she dreameth.

Doth she now with Fancy's eye recall
When she bid farewell to her father's hall,-
When she blushing left her mother's side,
And with smiles and tears became my bride ?
Is she dreaming o'er the time when she
Consented to leave them all for me ?
Perhaps of this she dreameth.

Hark ! she murmurs something in her sleep-
And the blush on her cheek becomes more deep -
And a gentle sigh from her bosom heaves,
Soft as wind that stirs the aspen leaves ;-
Again that sigh breathes out the same ; -
And oh ! she softly whispers my name -
'Tis of me ! 'tis of me she dreameth !