THE LOST LEADER.

I.

JUST for a handful of silver he left us,

Just for a riband to stick in his coat-
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others, she lets us devote ;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!

Rags-were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honoured him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,

Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!

Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,

Burns, Shelley, were with us,-they watch from their graves!

He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,

He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves !

II.

We shall march prospering,—not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,—not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,-while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire :
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,

One more wrong to man, one more insult to God!

Life's night begins : let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,

Forced praise on our part-the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!

"The Lost Leader" is supposed to be the poet Wordsworth, who, on accepting the laureateship, abandoned the party of distinguished literary men who had enthusiastically supported the principles of the French Revolution. It is necessary, of course, to enter into the lofty enthusiasm of that party, and for the moment to identify ourselves with it, in order to appreciate the wonderful power and pathos of this exquisite poem. (See Wordsworth's 'French Revolution as it appeared to enthusiasts at its

commencement.")

The contrasts are very powerful between the one (paltry) gift he gained, and all the others (love, loyalty, life, &c.) they were privileged to devote (far richer than mere possession); and again, between the niggardliness of his new patrons with their dole of silver, contrasted with the enthusiastic devotion of his own followers, who having nothing but " copper," would yet put it all at his service-having nothing but " rags," were yet so liberal with what they had, that had they been purple, he would have been proud indeed, seeing that "a riband to stick in his coat' had proved so great an attraction.

In the second stanza the fountains of the great deep of human feeling are broken up. "Life's night begins suggests at once the strength of the previous attachment, and the hopelessness of the broken tie being ever knit again on earth. The best thing is to be counted enemies now, and fight against each other as gallantly as they would have fought together. At the same time there is absolute confidence in the ultimate triumph of the party of freedom-he may "" menace our hearts," but we shall "master his "-and in the ultimate recovery of the lost leader himself, whom he hopes to find "pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne."

LOVE AMONG THE RUINS.

I.

WHERE the quiet coloured end of evening smiles,
Miles and miles,

On the solitary pastures where our sheep

Half-asleep

Tinkle homeward thro' the twilight, stray or stop
As they crop-

Was the site once of a city great and gay,

(So they say)

Of our country's very capital, its prince,

Ages since,

Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
Peace or war.

II.

Now, the country does not even boast a tree,

As you see,

To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills

From the hills

Intersect and give a name to, (else they run

Into one)

Where the domed and daring palace shot its spires
Up like fires

O'er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall

Bounding all,

Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed Twelve abreast.

III.

And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
Never was!

Such a carpet as, this summer-time, o'erspreads
And embeds

Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,

Stock or stone

Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe

Long ago;

Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
Struck them tame;

And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
Bought and sold.

IV.

Now, the single little turret that remains

On the plains,

By the caper overrooted, by the gourd

Overscored,

While the patching houseleek's head of blossom winks Through the chinks

Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time

Sprang sublime,

And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced

As they raced,

And the monarch and his minions and his dames

Viewed the games.

V.

And I know-while thus the quiet-coloured eve
Smiles to leave

To their folding, all our many tinkling fleece

In such peace,

And the slopes and rills in undistinguished grey
Melt away-

That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair

Waits me there

In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul

For the goal,

When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb

Till I come.

VI.

But he looked upon the city, every side,

Far and wide,

All the mountains topped with temples, all the glades
Colonnades,

All the causeys, bridges, aqueducts, and then,

All the men !

When I do come, she will speak not, she will stand
Either hand

On my shoulder, give her eyes the first embrace

Of my face,

Ere we rush, ere we extinguish sight and speech

Each on each.