Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a riband to stick in his coat.
The Lost Leader. i.
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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.
The Lost Leader. ii.
They are perfect; how else?—they shall never change: