A Broken Sword.

(To A. L.) The shopman shambled from the doorway out And twitched it down— Snapped in the blade! 'Twas scarcely dear, I doubt, At half-a-crown. Useless enough! And yet can still be seen, In letters clear, Traced on the metal's rusty damaskeen— "Povr Paruenyr." Whose was it once?—Who manned it once in hope His fate to gain? Who was it dreamed his oyster-world should ope To this—in vain? Maybe with some stout Argonaut it sailed The Western Seas; Maybe but to some paltry Nym availed For toasting cheese! Or decked by Beauty on some morning lawn With silken knot, Perchance, ere night, for Church and King 'twas drawn— Perchance 'twas not! Who knows—or cares? To-day, 'mid foils and gloves Its hilt depends, Flanked by the favours of forgotten loves,— Remembered friends;— And oft its legend lends, in hours of stress, A word to aid; Or like a warning comes, in puffed success, Its broken blade.