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.