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Where is she now?

Oh! Isa! tell me where thou art?

If Death has laid his hand upon thy brow,

Has he not touched my heart?

Has he not laid it in the grave with thine,

And buried all my joys?—Speak! thou art mine!

If thou were dead,

I would not ask thee to reply;

But thou art living—thy dear soul has fled

To heaven, where it can never die!

Then why not come to me? Return—return,

And comfort me, for I have much to mourn!

I sigh all day!

I mourn for thee the livelong night!

And when the next night comes, thou art away,

And so is absent my delight!

Oh! as the lone dove for his absent mate,

So is my soul for thee disconsolate!