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Their hearts no proud hereafter swelled;
Deep shadows veiled the way they held;
The yell of vengeance was their trump of fame,
Their monument, a grave without a name.

Yet, strong in weakness, there they stand
On yonder ice-bound rock,

Stern and resolved, that faithful band,
To meet Fate's rudest shock.

In grateful adoration now,

Upon the barren sands they bow.

What tongue e'er woke such prayer

As bursts in desolation there?

What arm of strength e'er wrought such power As waits to crown that feeble hour? There into life an infant empire springs! There falls the iron from the soul; There Liberty's young accents roll Up to the King of kings!

To fair creation's farthest bound

That thrilling summons yet shall sound;
The dreaming nations shall awake,

And to their center earth's old kingdoms shake;

Pontiff and prince, your sway

Must crumble from that day:

Before the loftier throne of Heaven

The hand is raised, the pledge is given, One monarch to obey, one creed to own, That monarch, God; that creed, his word alone.

Spread out earth's holiest records here, Of days and deeds to reverence dear; A zeal like this what pious legends tell? On kingdoms built

In blood and guilt,

The worshipers of vulgar triumph dwell;
But what exploit with theirs shall page,
Who rose to bless their kind,
Who left their nation and their age,
Man's spirit to unbind?

Who boundless seas passed o'er,
And boldly met, in every path,

Famine, and frost, and savage wrath,

To dedicate a shore,

Where Piety's meek train might breathe their vow, And seek their Maker with an unshamed brow; Where Liberty's glad race might proudly come, And set up there an everlasting home?

O many a time it hath been told,
The story of these men of old!
For this fair Poetry hath wreathed
Her sweetest, purest flower;
For this proud Eloquence had breathed
His strain of loftiest power;
Devotion, too, hath lingered round
Each spot of consecrated ground,

And hill and valley blessed,

There, where our banished fathers strayed, There, where they loved and wept and prayed,

There, where their ashes rest,

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And never may they rest unsung,
While Liberty can find a tongue.
Twine, Gratitude, a wreath for them
More deathless than the diadem,
Who, to life's noblest end,

Gave up life's noblest powers,
And bade the legacy descend

Down, down to us and ours.

LXXVIII. —WOLSEY AND CROMWELL

SHAKESPEARE.

THE following scene is taken from the historical play of "King Henry VIII." Cardinal Wolsey had been prime minister of England, the possessor of enormous wealth and unbounded power, but, in losing the favor of the king, had lost all. Cromwell was a friend and member of his household, who remained faithful to his benefactor in his fallen fortunes.

WOL

OL. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him ;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

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And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening nips his root;
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers, in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin,*
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

CROM. I have no power to speak, sir.

* That is, the ruin which princes inflict.

WOL.

What, amazed

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, and you weep
I am fallen indeed.

CROM.

WOL.

How does your grace?

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now; and I feel within me
A peace above all earthly dignities,

Why, well;

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
I humbly thank his

grace,

These ruined pillars, out of

A load would sink a navy,

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and from these shoulders, pity, taken

- too much honor.

O, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden

Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!

CROM. I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

WOL. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks,

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)

To endure more miseries, and greater far,

Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
What news abroad?

CROM.

The heaviest, and the worst,

God bless him!

Is your displeasure with the king.

WOL.

CROM. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord Chancellor, in your place.

WOL.

But he's a learned man.

That's somewhat sudden;

May he continue

Long in his Highness's favor, and do justice

For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,

May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on 'em!

What more?

Свом.

That Cranmer is returned with welcome,

Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

WOL. That's news, indeed.

CROM.

Last, that the Lady Anne,*

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was viewed in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

WOL. There was the weight that pulled me down! O

Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me; all my glories

In that one woman I have lost forever!

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king:

That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
What and how true thou art; he will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him

(I know his noble nature) not to let
Thy hopeful service perish too.

Neglect him not; make use now,
For thine own future safety.

Good Cromwell,

and provide

O my lord,

CROM.
Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?
Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
Forever, and forever, shall be yours.

WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

* Anne Boleyn, the second wife of King Henry VIII.

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