A happier dream her soul is wreathing.
Hush! hush! around her curtained bed,
Perchance with love there glides another!
We cannot hear that spirit-tread—
Yet in her sleep she murmurs, “Mother!”
But four bright summers o’er her head
Have softly, sweetly breathed their blessing,
And yet she mourneth for the dead
With anguish to our souls distressing.
All day by every wile we’ve sought