POETRY.
LINES ON A LOST LEADER.
(By THE GHOST OP GOLDSMITH.)*
HERE lies our good leader, whose charm was so great,
He could pacify " Tim " in an Irish debate; Who, born to resolve metaphysical kinks, To his Party gave up what he spared from the links, Once ironical Fate caused the stupider side To acknowledge a brain as its ruler and guide.
With a mind like a rapier, whose delicate thrustings Were wholly unfit for the platform or hustings, And applied 'to the treatment of things in the rough Resembled a razor dissecting plum-duff ; • Unaggressive in mien, yet the dourest of all When he found himself set with his back to the wall ; Unmoved by abuse, in adversity steady, Unprepared as a speaker, yet never unready ; The bitterest foes who his actions maligned Never dared to assert he bad axes to grind.
Too remote from the mind of the man in the street With our latter-day orator Puffs to compete ; Too richly endowed:to excel in one field, His lack of illusions he never concealed, And while readily owning the paramount claims.
Of politics viewed as the greatest of games, With infinite zest he would take himself off At the call of philosophy, music, or golf.
So when at the last he determined to go, Though the House was fulfilled with unanimous woe, - It was hard to decide who more deeply bewailed him, The foes who admirtd or the friends who had failed him.
L L. G.
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