LAY OF THE ROSE. 257 
Dropp’d from her, fair and mute, 
Close to a poet’s foot. 
Who beheld them, smiling lowly, 
As at something sad and holy ; 
Said, “Verily and thus. 
So chanceth e’er with us, 
Poets, ringing sweetest snatches. 
While deaf did men keep the watches 
t 
“ Saunting to come before 
Our own age evermore. 
In a loneness, in a loneness. 
And the nobler for that oneness 
“ But if alone we be 
Where is our empiry ? 
And if none can reach our stature 
Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
What bell will yield a tone 
Saving in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing. 
Who can hear the chimed ringing 
22 * 
