To Cara, After An Interval Of Absence.

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?