Hush! her face is chill,

And the summer blossom.

Motionless and still,

Lieth on her bosom.

On her shroud so white,

Like snow in winter weather,

Her marble hands unite,

Quietly together.

How like sleep the spell

On her lids that falleth!

Wake, sweet Isabel!

Lo! the morning calleth.

How like Sleep!—’tis Death!

Sleep’s own gentle brother;

Heaven holds her breath—

She is with her mother!