Yes! it is so—­this deep magnetic sleep,
That from my being passes upon her,
Bindeth the body close in deepest thrall,
But setteth free the soul.  What real need
Hath spirit of these sensuous avenues,
Through which the soul looks feebly on the world? 
This power then opes the prison door awhile,
And sends the spirit chainless o’er the earth. 
This know I—­without eyes the spirit sees,
Gains instant cognizance of hidden things,
And counts all space for nothing; knowledge comes
Upon it with the falling of the flesh,
So that there is no thing in earth or heaven
But to the unhoused spirit native is—­
The mantle falls and leaves the Prophet angel! 
Body, then, is the prison-house of soul,
And freedom is its highest happiness,
Its heaven, its primal being full of joy. 
This power that holdeth thus the keys of life,
Can then at will give moments of release,
Which to the soul are as the water-brooks
That scantly rise amid a sun-scorch’d waste: 
These, oft repeated, must at length destroy
The thraldom of the flesh, and give at will
A freer issue to the practised soul—­
At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss,
Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time. 
Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison’d soul
Rise to its sister angels heavenward still;
And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose,
Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free. 
Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be
A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place,
Full of all infinite delights, and dear
As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark,
That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky. 
These men, did they not see it in thine eyes,
Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight,
As some rude passer gazing up aloft
Sees from some casement, unawares, a face
That makes his great rough heart on sudden rock
With wonder and with worship—­in her frame
Did they not see the mortal waxing faint,
The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire? 
Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love,
Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.

Scene III.—­A Boudoir.  Flowers about it, in beautifully shaped Vases.  A Greenhouse at one end.  The window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light fleecy draperies.  MABEL working, and singing in a low voice.

MABEL (singing).

At night when stars shine bright and clear,
  The soft winds on the casements blow,
  And round the chamber rustle low,
Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,
  On tiptoe stealing to and fro—­

At night when clouds are dark and drear,
  They moan about the lattice sore,
  And murmur sighs for evermore,
That fill us with a chilly fear,
  Oft glancing at the well-barr’d door—­

At night, in moonlight or in gloom,
  They wander round the drooping thatch,
  Like some poor exile thence to catch
Fond glimpses of each well-loved room,
  And sigh beside the unraised latch—­