MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886.

To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!

A year ago to-night, the Desert still

Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill

Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,

And paltered, and evaded, and denied;

Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,

And craven heart, and calculated skill

In long delays, of their great homicide.

A year ago to-night‘ twas not too late.

The thought comes through our mirth, again, again;

Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate

Approaching and approaching us; and then

Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate!

Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.