When tho gentle band of sluraber Presaos on my wcary eyes, And tho forma that none can nuraber In their thronging beauty rise - Phantoms of imagination, VVith a roystic glory fraught, Teil me by their fascination That the spirit sleepeth not! When the aira of evening win me To go forth and view the ekies, And I feel my eoul within me Struggling, as Ã¯t iuint would rise From the gloomy paths of men To enjoy ils blessed lot, Som.cthing' whispers to me then That the spirit sleepeth nol.' When I gaza npon the ocean, W ith its ever-heaving tide, In its spirit soothing tnotion, Oc its dosolating pride - Cbanging still, it over haVh Voices fot the inward thought, Tolling in its Jovo and wrath, That tho spirit sleepeth nol! When I bend in adoration Loy before the throne of God. Pour forth my supplication, Spreadiog ail my tvants a.broat], Voicea from the world above, While the earth is all forgot, Teil mewith their tones of love, That the spint eleepeth not! From the mountains and the valleys, From. the leavee, by zephyra stirr'd From the wind that gently dallies Wiih the 'ocean's mace is heard Whispers as of thousand spint s, Telling, aa on air they rise, That the soul which man inberits It never slumsers, never dies.