BROTHERHOOD 63 



finest stroke of creation, so the rose is the happiest 

 hit among flowers ! Yet, in the feast of ever-bloom- 

 ing roses, and of double roses, we are in danger of 

 being perverted from a love of simplicity, as mani- 

 fested in the wild, single rose. When a man can 

 look upon the simple, wild rose and feel no pleasure, 

 his taste has been corrupted. 



HENBY WAED BEECHEB. 



BROTHERHOOD 



KNEW not the Sun, sweet Violet, 

 The while he gleaned the snow, 



That thou in darkness sepulchred, 

 Wast slumbering below ? 



Or spun a splendour of surprise 



Around him to behold thee rise ? 



Saw not the Star, sweet Violet, 



What time a drop of dew 

 Let fall his image from the sky 



Into thy deeper blue ? 

 Nor waxed he tremulous and dim 

 When rival Dawn supplanted him ? 



And dreamest thou, sweet Violet, 



That I, the vanished Star, 

 The Dewdrop, and the morning Sun, 



Thy closest kinsmen are 

 So near that, waking or asleep, 

 We each and all thine image keep ? 



JOHN B. TABB. 



