A RETROGRADE.
“What, you!” his comrades cried, “who led us long
Against the dense arrays of dullards’ thought,
You quit us on the march, so quickly caught
By such a strain, a simple peasant-song?
That breath of old brown earth is strangely strong,
To lure you to the fields where hinds untaught
Toil slavish, or by common coinage bought,
Or meanly fearful of the Master’s thong!”