To Christabel Rose Coleridge

Nature and Fortune, and the doom severe
Of my own faults, forbid me to desire
The bliss of fathers seated by the fire ;
Happy to know their darlings all are near,
Happy the crowing note of babe to hear,
Happy with lads that, restless to inquire.
Ask curious questions that might tease and tire
Aught less affectionate than parent's ear.
Yet though the name of uncle, in the mind
Of childhood, be with horrid deeds combined
Of bloody Richard, and that covetous man
That left the poor babes in the wildering wood,
I would be Uncle Toby if I could,
Or Oliver return'd from Hindostan.
Sweet Christabel, that hast a lovely name
That would the sweetest thing commemorate
That ever poet dream'd, be not thy fate
Like hers, to tremble with a faultless shame !
Oh, may no act of thine provoke the blame
Which, least deserved, is ever keenest felt !
Thine innocent flesh, that softest touch can melt,
May never worldly thought or speech defame !
But in the world thou must be incomplete,
For who of Christabel can close the story ? —
The name, sweet child, it is an omen meet
Of all that earth bestows of good and glory.
May'st thou for aye in love and fancy dwell
Like thy good grandsire's lovely Christabel !