POETRY.

JOHN BRIGHT.

LOVED at the last ! The great Tribune, the fighter,

The name once in England chief discord, chief fear! Now a spell breathing peace, now a link to unite her, From the Crown to the cottage, Prince, people, andypeer !

Loved at the last ! Lo, a nation stands mourning Up there in the North, neath his eold native skies ; No pomp at the tomb, and no hatchment adorning, Plain, simple, the grave where the great Quaker lies.

Ah, there let him rest ! Do our wishes still wander To the Statesman's last home, the great Abbey afar? Nay, think ! Is not somethinefar truer and grander To be even in death what we were, what we are ?

Free, free as a child, from vainglory, ambition, Though the charm of a senate, the first on the floor, Still true to the cause of a life, of a mission,

To the cause of the humble, the lowly, the poor!

There leave him ! So Rotha her Wordsworth is keeping; Sir Walter lies hushed by his Tweed's native song ; And, greatest of all, mighty Shakespeare is sleeping Where Avon's still waters flow softly along ;

To teach us what fame is : the city's ovation— A clamour, a splendour, a bubble's brief gleam! But the triumph was won far away, the creation

Of life's simpler moments, by mountain and stream. And though there was something they learned, be it granted, From fine nurture's art, not from nature's rude loam, Yet greater by far what they brought, when transplanted, In the strength of the soil, and the breath of the home.

It is over. That voice ! shall we ever forget it ?

That music, that language, so rich and so strong ? Milton's sword ! In his hand the great Puritan set it, And taught him to wield it 'gainst falsehood. and wrong; Never drawn save in cause of some weakness down-trampled, Never sheathed till at eve the great struggle was won ; So he took it, and, armed with a power unexampled, He smote right and left, and the battle was done.

It is done. Let him rest ! We seek not to discover

The proportion exact, what to praise, what to blame : In a day of great heat, when the burning is over, Some may have been hurt, have been singed, in the flame But a greatness was there. 'Twill remain a possession For England's far future, to ages unborn : And how oft in the dearth, the despair, of the Session Shall we seek 'his great presence, his anger, his scorn !

Hard-hitter, strong-fighter, but stooping to faction—

Oh, never ! Oft lonely the path that he trod ; But he cared not for praise, and he feared not detraction, Brave soldier, good worker, true servant of God.

So, loved at the last ! Other love is more flying, In youth a fierce fever, with age cooling fast, But the love of a nation more faithful, undying, Not passion, not fancy, is love to the last.

And though for a while she may blame, she may chide them, Her children, dear Mother, yet when all is past, They may count on her justice, 'tis never denied them, If only they loved her, she'll love them at last. B.