lancing round them.

II.

What? To fix me thus meant nothing? But I can't tell (there's my
weakness)
What her look said!--no vile cant, sure, about "need to strew the
bleakness
Of some lone shore with its pearl-seed, that the sea feels"--no
"strange yearning
That such souls have, most to lavish where there's chance of least
returning".

III.

Oh, we're sunk enough here, God knows! but not quite so sunk that
moments,
Sure tho' seldom, are denied us, when the spirit's true endowments
Stand out plainly from its false ones, and apprise it if pursuing
Or the right way or the wrong way, to its triumph or undoing.

IV.

There are flashes struck from midnights, there are fire-flames
noondays kindle,
Whereby piled-up honours perish, whereby swollen ambitions dwindle,
While just this or that poor impulse, which for once had play unstifled,
Seems the sole work of a life-time that away the rest have trifled.

V.

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 ber