The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore Collected by Himself. In Ten Volumes |
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TO CARA, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore |  |
55
TO CARA, AFTER AN INTERVAL OF ABSENCE.
Conceal'd within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
The fruitage of the forest wild.
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.
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 chill'd to death!
And gentler blows the night wind's breath;
Yet no—'tis gone—the storms are keen,
The infant may be chill'd to death!
56
Perhaps, ev'n 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.
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 ev'n thy hand to touch,
I mutely asked those eyes to tell
If parting pain'd thee half so much:
When, fearful ev'n thy hand to touch,
I mutely asked those eyes to tell
If parting pain'd thee half so much:
I thought,—and, oh! forgive the thought,
For none was e'er by love inspir'd
Whom fancy had not also taught
To hope the bliss his soul desir'd.
For none was e'er by love inspir'd
Whom fancy had not also taught
To hope the bliss his soul desir'd.
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.
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.
How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
57
And, many an hour, beguil'd by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.
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 chill'd it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give—
Yet, no—perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it;
Say, dearest—does the feeling live?
Haply, it yet a throb may give—
Yet, no—perhaps, a doubt has kill'd it;
Say, dearest—does the feeling live?
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore | |