TO CARA,

Concealed within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food, The fruitage of the forest wild.

But storms upon her pathway rise, The mother roams, astray and weeping; Far from the weak appealing cries Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.

She hopes, she fears; a light is seen, And gentler blows the night wind's breath; Yet no —‘ tis gone — the storms are keen, The infant may be chilled to death!

Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded, His little eyes lie cold and still;— And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded, Life and love may light them still.

Thus, Cara, at our last farewell, When, fearful even thy hand to touch, I mutely asked those eyes to tell If parting pained thee half so much:

I thought,— and, oh! forgive the thought, For none was e'er by love inspired Whom fancy had not also taught To hope the bliss his soul desired.

Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind, Though yet to that sweet mind unknown, I left one infant wish behind, One feeling, which I called my own.

Oh blest! though but in fancy blest, How did I ask of Pity's care, To shield and strengthen, in thy breast, The nursling I had cradled there.

And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure, And many an hour of sorrow numbering, I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure, I left within thy bosom slumbering.

Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it, Haply, it yet a throb may give — Yet, no — perhaps, a doubt has killed it; Say, dearest — does the feeling live?