V.

Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she

felt clearly,

Ages past the soul existed, here an age 't is resting merely, And hence fleets again for ages: while the true end, sole and single,

It stops here for is, this love-way, with some other soul to mingle?

VI.

Else it loses what it lived for, and eternally must lose it; Better ends may be in prospect, deeper blisses (if you choose it),

But this life's end and this love-bliss have been lost here. Doubt you whether

This she felt as, looking at me, mine and her souls rushed together?

Oh, observe!

VII.

Of course, next moment, the world's honours, in derision,

Trampled out the light for ever. Never fear but there's provision

Of the devil's to quench knowledge, lest we walk the earth in rapture!

-Making those who catch God's secret, just so much more prize their capture!

VIII.

Such am I the secret's mine now! She has lost me, I have gained her;

Her soul's mine: and thus, grown perfect, I shall pass my life's remainder.

Life will just hold out the proving both our powers, alone and blended:

And then, come next life quickly! This world's use will have been ended.

LXVII. THE LOST LEADER.

From Dramatic Lyrics; written in 1845.

I.

UST for a handful of silver he left us,

JUST

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 watcn 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 wrong more 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!

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. (1811-1863.)

LXVIII. PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.

Published among Thackeray's Ballads" under the sub-heading

"Lines written to an Album Print ".

S on this pictured page I look,

As

This pretty tale of line and hook,
As though it were a novel-book,

Amuses and engages:

I know them both, the boy and girl;
She is the daughter of the Earl,
The lad (that has his hair in curl)
My lord the County's page is.

A pleasant place for such a pair!
The fields lie basking in the glare; *
No breath of wind the heavy air

Of lazy summer quickens.
Hard by you see the castle tall;
The village nestles round the wall,
As round about the hen its small
Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep;
To climb the turret is too steep;

My lord the Earl is dozing deep,
His noonday dinner over:

The postern warder is asleep

(Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):
And so from out the gate they creep;
And cross the fields of clover.

Their lines into the brook they launch;
He lays his cloak upon a branch,
To guarantee his Lady Blanche

's delicate complexion:

He takes his rapier from his haunch,

That beardless, doughty champion staunch;
He'd drill it through the rival's paunch
That question'd his affection!

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!
You never mark, though trout or jack,
Or little foolish stickleback,

Your baited snares may capture.
What care has she for line and hook?
She turns her back upon the brook,
Upon her lover's eyes to look
In sentimental rapture.

O loving pair! as thus I gaze
Upon the girl who smiles always,
The little hand that ever plays

Upon the lover's shoulder;
In looking at your pretty shapes,
A sort of envious wish escapes
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)
The Poet, your beholder.

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;
With nothing else on earth to do,

But all day long to bill and coo:

It were a pleasant calling.
And had I such a partner sweet;
A tender heart for mine to beat,
A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-
I'd let the world flow at my feet,

And never heed its brawling.

LXIX. ON A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

This is one of the most popular of the famous Roundabout Papers written by Thackeray for the Cornhill Magazine, of which he was the first editor.

WHERE have I just read of a game played at a country house? The party assembles round a table with pens, ink, and paper. Some one narrates a tale containing more or less incidents and personages. Each person of the company then writes down, to the best of his memory and ability, the anecdote just narrated, and finally the papers are to be read out. I do not say I should like to play often at this game, which might possibly be a tedious and lengthy pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the young ladies playing their pianopieces; or to Hobbs and Nobbs lingering round the bottle and talking over the morning's run with the hounds; but surely it is a moral and ingenious sport. They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and amusing. The original story becomes so changed and distorted that at the end of all the statements you are puzzled to know where the truth is at all. As time is of small importance to the cheerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years. Let the people who played the game in '60 all meet and play it once more in '61, and each write his