Doubt you if, in some such moment, as she fixed me, she felt clearly, Ages past the soul existed, here an age 'tis 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? VII. Oh, observe! 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. 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 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.