XLII. TO ROTHA Q ROTHA, my Spiritual Child! this head was grey Too late, I feel, sweet Orphan! was the day Yet shall my blessing hover o'er thee still, Breathed forth beside the peaceful mountain Stream 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, Than flesh and blood; whene'er thou meet'st my sight, XLIV. IN my mind's eye a Temple, like a cloud Rose out of darkness: the bright Work stood still, But it was fashioned and to God was vowed 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 Cleaves the blank air, Life flies: now every day All fitful cares, all transitory zeal ; So timely Grace the immortal wing may heal, And honour rest upon the senseless clay. |