Beneath the touch of Hope, how soft,
How light the magic pencil ran!
Till Fear would come, alas, as oft,
And trembling close what Hope began.

A tear or two had dropp'd from Grief,
And Jealousy would, now and then,
Ruffle in haste some snow-white leaf,
Which Love had still to smooth again.

But, ah! there came a blooming boy,
Who often turn'd the pages o'er,
And wrote therein such words of joy,
That all who read them sigh'd for more.

And Pleasure was this spirit's name,

And though so soft his voice and look, Yet Innocence, whene'er he came,

Would tremble for her spotless book.

For, oft a Bacchant cup he bore,

With earth's sweet nectar sparkling bright; And much she fear'd lest, mantling o'er,

Some drops should on the pages light.

And so it chanc'd, one luckless night,
The urchin let that goblet fall
O'er the fair book, so pure, so white,
And sullied lines and marge and all!

In vain now, touch'd with shame, he tried
To wash those fatal stains away;

Deep, deep had sunk the sullying tide,
The leaves grew darker every day.

And Fancy's sketches lost their hue,
And Hope's sweet lines were all effac'd,
And Love himself now scarcely knew
What Love himself so lately trac'd.

At length the urchin Pleasure fled,
(For how, alas! could Pleasure stay?)
And Love, while many a tear he shed,
Reluctant flung the book away.

The index now alone remains,

Of all the pages spoil'd by Pleasure, And though it bears some earthy 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.

ΤΟ

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.

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;

-'tis gone-the storms are keen,

Yet no

The infant may be chill'd to death!

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.

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:

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.

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.