IiAT OF THE ROSE. 259 
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 deign 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 mihiP 
• 
Shame ! shame to poet’s soul. 
Pining for such a dole. 
When heaven-called to inherit 
The high throne of his own spirit! 
