TO ROTHA Q ——

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

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.