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Yet to behold his face again, and hear His voice, tho' painful was a deep delight: It was a joy to think that he was near, To see him in the visions of the night,— To know that the departed still requite The love which to their memory still will cling: And tho' he might not bless her waking sight With his dear presence, 'twas a blessed thing That sleep would thus sometimes his actual image bring.

Why comes he not to me? Yeruti cries: And Mooma echoing with a sigh the thought, Ask'd why it was that to her longing eyes No dream the image of her father brought? Nor Monnema to solve that question sought In vain, content in ignorance to dwell; Perhaps it was because they knew him not; Perhaps—but sooth she could not answer well; What the departed did, themselves alone could tell.