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?