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?