Oh! is it not a dream, my child? Is not my yearning heart beguiled? And have not then my longings wild Disturbed my wildered brain? Ah, no! the wish that night and day Hath never, never passed away— It stirred me not in vain. Full many a dreary month has passed, Since o’er me swept that chilling blast, When on thee, child, I looked my last. Oh! since that mournful hour, How have I longed for some charmed art To trace thine image from my heart With thy rich beauty’s dower. I see thee once again, my dove! Thy face all radiant with love— Thy parted rose-bud lips—they _move_— Oh! will they _never speak_? I list in vain, my warbling bird; There gushes forth no loving word, And tears steal down my cheek. Thou puttest up thy month to kiss; My heart is thrilled with wildest bliss— And yet—and yet—_something_ I miss— Thought’s ever changeful play— The variant, passing moods of life— Its lights and shades in pleasant strife— A dash of Sorrow’s spray. I look upon thy morning face, Enrapt with its sun-lighted grace— But seek in vain the faintest trace Of some o’ershadowing cloud. Alas! dear child! _it is not thou_— Sunshine laughed never on thy brow When grief did mine enshroud. I miss thy winsome tenderness— Thy music-tones, so charmed to bless; I miss thy soothing, fond caress— Thy sweet lips on mine own. Carrie, my child! _thou_ wouldst not be Thus mute in my keen agony. _Again I am alone!_ Then hide that face from out my sight! Its radiant smile and eyes of light But mock me in my sorrow’s night— I cannot bid it stay. Too like it is, sweet one, to thee— And oh! I cannot bear to see That smile’s unbroken ray. But hush, my heart! And would I, then, Make thee a child of grief again, And shroud thy boundless, starry ken In Time’s bewildering night. Ah, no! I would rejoice that now Ray ever round thy cherub-brow Beams of celestial light.