Samuel Taylor Coleridge — On the Christening of a Friends Child

This day among the faithful plac'd        &nbspAnd fed with fontal manna, O with maternal title grac'd,        &nbspDear Anna's dearest Anna! While others wish thee wise and fair,        &nbspA maid of spotless fame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer—        &nbspMay'st thou deserve thy name! Thy mother's name, a potent spell,        &nbspThat bids the Virtues hie From mystic grove and living cell,        &nbspConfess'd to Fancy's eye; Meek Quietness without offence;        &nbspContent in homespun kirtle; True Love; and True Love's Innocence,        &nbspWhite Blossom of the Myrtle! Associates of thy name, sweet Child!        &nbspThese Virtues may'st thou win; With face as eloquently mild        &nbspTo say, they lodge within. So, when her tale of days all flown,        &nbspThy mother shall be miss'd here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own        &nbspAnd Angels snatch their Sister; Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,        &nbspMay gaze with stifled breath; And oft, in momentary trance,        &nbspForget the waste of death. Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd        &nbspIn summer-swelling pride; Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude        &nbspPeep'd at the rose's side. It chanc'd I pass'd again that way        &nbspIn Autumn's latest hour, And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray        &nbspRich with the selfsame flower. Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud        &nbspAlike in shape, place, name, Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud,        &nbspAnother and the same!