Rotha, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey When at the sacred font for thee I stood; Pledged till thou reach the verge of womanhood, And shalt become thy own sufficient stay: Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan, was the day 5 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[488] Whose murmur soothed thy languid Mother's ear 10 After her throes, this Stream of name more dear Since thou dost bear it,--a memorial theme[489] For others; for thy future self, a spell To summon fancies out of Time's dark cell.[490] FOOTNOTES: [488] The river Rotha, which flows into Windermere from the lakes of Grasmere and Rydal.--ED. [489] 1827. ... whose name is thine to bear Hanging around thee a memorial theme MS. [490] Compare the poem on the Borrowdale _Yew Trees_.--ED. TO ----, IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR[491] Composed 1827.--Published 1827 [Lady Fitzgerald, as described to me by Lady Beaumont.--I.F.] One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED. 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, 6 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 10 From desolation toward[492] 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.[493] FOOTNOTES: [491] 1832. To ----, 1827. [492] 1832. ... tow'rds ... 1827. [493] Another version of this sonnet is given in a letter from Mrs. Wordsworth to Lady Beaumont:-- Lady, what delicate graces may unite In age--so often comfortless and bleak! Though from thy unenfeebled eye-balls break Those saintly emanations of delight, A snow-drop let me name thee; pure, chaste, white, Too pure for flesh and blood; with smooth, blanch'd cheek, And head that droops because the soul is meek, And not that Time presses with weary weight. Hope, Love, and Joy are with thee fresh as fair; A Child of Winter prompting thoughts that climb From desolation towards the genial prime: Or, like the moon, conquering the misty air And filling more and more with chrystal light, As pensive evening deepens into night.--ED. "IN MY MIND'S EYE A TEMPLE, LIKE A CLOUD" Composed 1827.--Published 1827 One of the "Miscellaneous Sonnets."--ED.