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 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”.

  As on this pictured page I look,
  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.