The Poetry of Flowers. 
103 
‘ ‘ Howbeit ”—here his face 
Heightened around the place, 
So to mark the outward turning 
Of his spirit’s inward burning— 
“ Something it is to hold 
In God’s world’s manifold, 
First revealed to creatures duty, 
A new form of His mild beauty. 
‘ 1 Whether that form respect 
The sense or intellect, 
Holy rest in soul or pleasance, 
The chief beauty’s sign of presence. 
‘ ‘ Holy in me and thee, 
Rose fallen from the tree, 
Though the world stand dumb around us, 
All unable to expound us. 
* ‘ Though none us design to bless, 
Blessed are we natheless ; 
Blessed age and consecrated ! 
In that, Rose, we were created ! 
“Oh, shame to poet’s lays, 
Sung for the dole of praise— 
Hoarsely sung upon the highway, 
With an ‘obolum da mihi'! 
“ Shame ! shame to poet’s soul, 
Pining for such a dole, 
When heaven-called to inherit 
The high throne of his own spirit! 
‘ ‘ Sit still upon your thrones, 
O ye poetic ones ! 
And if, sooth, the world decry you, 
Why, let that world pass by you ! 
