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XLII.

TO ROTHA Q

ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey
When at the sacred Font for Thee I stood;
Pledged till thou reached the verge of womanhood,
And shalt become thy own sufficient stay:

Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day
For stedfast hope the contract to fulfil;

Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still,
Embodied in the music of this Lay,

Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream
Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear
After her throes, this Stream of name more dear

Since thou dost bear it, a memorial theme

For others; for thy future self a spell

To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.

*The River Rotha, that flows into Windermere from the Lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.

XLIII.

TO

SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright,
Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined
By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind
To something purer and more exquisite

Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight,
When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek,
Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white,
And head that droops because the soul is meek,
Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare;
That Child of Winter, prompting thoughts that climb
From desolation tow'rds the genial prime;
Or with the Moon conquering earth's misty air,
And filling more and more with crystal light
As pensive Evening deepens into night.

XLIV.

IN my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud
Slowly surmounting some invidious hill,

Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still,
And might of its own beauty have been proud,

But it was fashioned and to God was vowed
By virtues that diffused, in every part,

Spirit divine through forms of human art :

Faith had her arch-her arch, when winds blow loud, Into the consciousness of safety thrilled;

And Love her towers of dread foundation laid

Under the grave of things; Hope had her spire Star-high, and pointing still to something higher; Trembling I gazed, but heard a voice- it said,

Hell-gates are powerless Phantoms when we build.

XLV.

CONCLUSION.

ΤΟ

IF these brief Records, by the Muses' art
Produced as lonely Nature or the strife
That animates the scenes of public life
Inspired, may in thy leisure claim a part;
And if these Transcripts of the private heart
Have gained a sanction from thy falling tears,
Then I repent not: but my soul hath fears
Breathed from eternity; for as a dart

Cleaves the blank air, Life flies: now every day
Is but a glimmering spoke in the swift wheel
Of the revolving week. Away, away,

All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ;

So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal,

And honour rest upon the senseless clay.

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