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?