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 more wrong 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!
“The Lost Leader” is supposed to be the poet Wordsworth, who, on
accepting the laureateship, abandoned the party of distinguished
literary men who had enthusiastically supported the principles of the
French Revolution. It is necessary, of course, to enter into the lofty
enthusiasm of that party, and for the moment to identify ourselves with
it, in order to appreciate the wonderful power and pathos of this
exquisite poem. (See Wordsworth’s “French Revolution as it appeared to
enthusiasts at its commencement.”)
The contrasts are very powerful between the one (paltry) gift he gained,
and all the others (love, loyalty, life, &c.) they were privileged to
_devote_ (far richer than mere possession); and again, between the
niggardliness of his new patrons with their dole of silver, contrasted
with the enthusiastic devotion of his own followers, who having nothing
but “copper,” would yet put it all at his service—having nothing but
“rags,” were yet so liberal with what they had, that had they been
purple, he would have been proud indeed, seeing that “a riband to stick
in his coat” had proved so great an attraction.
In the second stanza the fountains of the great deep of human feeling
are broken up. “Life’s night begins” suggests at once the strength of
the previous attachment, and the hopelessness of the broken tie being
ever knit again on earth. The best thing is to be counted enemies now,
and fight against each other as gallantly as they would have fought
together. At the same time there is absolute confidence in the ultimate
triumph of the party of freedom—he may “menace our hearts,” but we shall
“master his”—and in the ultimate recovery of the lost leader himself,
whom he hopes to find “pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne.”
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