The dark misgivings of our souls, if heaven

Left not such beings with us? But is this

Her wonted look?—too sad a quiet lies

On its dim fearful beauty! Speak, Ximena!

Speak! My heart dies within me! She is gone,

With all her blessed smiles! My child! my child!

Where art thou?—Where is that which answer’d me,

From thy soft-shining eyes?—Hush! doth she move?

One light lock seem’d to tremble on her brow,

As a pulse throbb’d beneath;—’twas but the voice