The index now alone remains.
Of all the pages spoiled by Pleasure,
And though it bears some earthly stains,
Yet Memory counts the leaf a treasure.
And oft, they say, she scans it o'er,
And oft, by this memorial aided,
Brings back the pages now no more,
And thinks of lines that long have faded.
I know not if this tale be true,
But thus the simple facts are stated;
And I refer their truth to you,
Since Love and you are near related.
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: