XXIX.-CARDINAL WOLSEY ON BEING CAST OFF BY KING HENRY VIII.

SHAKESPEARE.

AY, then, farewell!

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness,

And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
So farewell to the little good you bear me.
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;
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,
These 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. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man who hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have,
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!

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,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me must more be heard of,—say, then, I taught thee,——

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,--
Corruption wins not more than honesty :

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
-Prithee, lead me in:

And,

There, take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

XXX. CATILINE'S LAST HARANGUE TO HIS ARMY.

CROLY.

BRAVE comrades! all is ruined! I disdain

To hide the truth from you.

The die is thrown !

And now, let each that wishes for long life
Put up
his sword, and kneel for peace to Rome.
Ye are all free to go.-What? no man stirs !
Not one!a soldier's spirit in you all?

Give me your hands! (This moisture in my eyes
Is womanish-'twill pass.) My noble hearts!
Well have you chosen to die! For, in my mind,
The grave is better than o'erburthened life ;-
Better the quick release of glorious wounds,
Than the eternal taunts of galling tongues ;-
Better the spear-head quivering in the heart,
Thnn daily struggle against Fortune's curse;
Better, in manhood's muscle and high blood,
To leap the gulf, than totter to its edge
In poverty, dull pain, and base decay.—
Once more, I say,- —are ye resolved?

Then each man to his tent, and take the arms
That he would love to die in-for, this hour,
We storm the Consul's camp.-A last farewell!
When we next meet, we'll have no time to look,
How parting clouds a soldier's countenance :-
Few as we are, we'll rouse them with a peal
That shall shake Rome !-

Now to your cohort's heads,-the word's-Revenge.

XXXI.-LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA.

J. H. PAYNE.

THUS, thus, my friends! fast as our breaking hearts
Permitted utterance, we have told our story:

And now, to say one word of the imposture

The mask, necessity has made me wear.

When the ferocious malice of your king

King, do I call him?-when the monster, Tarquin,

Slew, as most of you may well remember,

My father Marcus, and my elder brother,

Mr

Envying at once their virtues and their wealth,
How could I hope a shelter from his power,
But in the false face I have worn so long?

Would you know why I summoned you together?
Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger,
Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse!
See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death!
She was the mark and model of the time,

The mould in which each female face was formed,
The very shrine and sacristy of virtue!

The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph
Who met old Numa in his hallowed walk

And whispered in his ear her strains divine,

Can I conceive beyond her !-The young choir

Of vestal virgins bent to her! Oh, my countrymen !
You all can witness that when she went forth,

It was a holiday in Rome; old age

Forgot its crutch, labor its task,--all ran ;

And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried,

"There, there's Lucretia !"-Now look ye where she lies,

That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose,

Torn up by ruthless violence--gone! gone!

Say--would you seek instruction? would you seek
What ye
should do?—Ask ye yon conscious walls
Which saw his poisoned brother, saw foul crimes
Committed there, and they will cry, Revenge!
Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove
O'er her dead father's corse, 'twill cry, Revenge!
Ask yonder Senate-house, whose stones are purple
With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge!
Goto the tomb where lie his murdered wife,
And the poor queen who loved him as her son-
Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge!
The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heaven--
The gods themselves-shall justify the cry,
And swell the general sound-Revenge! Revenge!

XXXII.-ROLLA TO THE PERUVIANS.
SHERIDAN.

Y brave associates--partners of my toil, my feelings, and my fame!--Can Rolla's words add vigor to the virtuous energies which inspire your hearts?—No! you have judged, as I have, the foulness of the crafty plea by which these bold invaders would delude you. Your generous spirit has compared, as mine has, the motives which, in a war like this, can animate their minds and ours. They, by a strange frenzy driven, fight for power, for plunder, and extended rule; -we, for our country, our altars, and our homes. They follow an adventurer whom they fear, and obey a power which they hate ;—we serve a monarch whom we love, a God whom we adore. When'er they move in anger, desolation tracks their progress! where'er they pause in amity, affliction mourns their friendship! They boast they come but to improve our state, enlarge our thoughts, and free us from the yoke of error:—yes, they will give enlightened freedom to our minds, who are themselves the slaves of passion, avarice, and pride!-They offer us their protection—yes, such protection as vultures give to lambs-covering and devouring

them! They call upon us to barter all the good we have inherited and proved, for the desperate chace of something better-which they promise. Be our plain answer the throne we honor is the people's choice-the laws we reverence are our brave fathers' legacy—the faith we follow teaches us to live in bonds of charity with all mankind, and die with hope of bliss beyond the grave. Tell your invaders this, and tell them, too, we seek no change; and, least of all, such change as they would bring us.

XXXIII.—WILLIAM TELL TO HIS NATIVE

Ε

MOUNTAINS.

J. S. KNOWLES.

YE crags and peaks, I'm with you once again!

I hold to you the hands you first beheld,
Methinks I hear

To show they still are free.

A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home
Again!-O sacred forms, how proud you look!
How high you lift your heads into the sky!

How huge you are, how mighty, and how free!

Ye are the things that tower, that shine; whose smile
Makes glad whose frown is terrible; whose forms,
Robed or unrobed, do all the impress wear

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,

I'm with you once again!—I call to you
With all my voice!-I hold my hands to you

To show they still are free.

I rush to you
As though I could embrace you!

Scaling yonder peak,

I saw an eagle wheeling near its brow,
O'er the abyss: his broad expanded wings
Lay calm and motionless upon the air,
As if he floated there without their aid,
Bp the sole act of his unlorded will,
That buoyed him proudly up. Instinctively

I bent my bow: yet kept he rounding still
His airy circle, as in the delight

Of measuring the ample range beneath,

And round about; absorbed, he heeded not

The death that threatened him.-1 could not shoot

'Twas liberty!--I turned my bow aside,

And let him soar away!

Heavens with what pride I used
To walk these hills, and look up to my God,
And think the land was free. Yes, it was free—
From end to end, from cliff to lake, 'twas free—
Free as our torrents are that leap our rocks,
And plough our valleys without asking leave;
Or as our peaks that wear their caps of snow
In the very presence of the regal sun.

How happy was I then! I loved

Its very storms. Yes, I have often sat

In my boat at night, when midway o'er the lake—
The stars went out, and down the mountain-gorge

WEI

The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled
To see him shake his lightenings o'er my head,
And think I had no master save his own.

-On the wild jutting cliff, o'ertaken oft

By the mountain blast, I have laid me flat along ;
And while gust followed gust more furiously,
As if to sweep me o'er the horrid brink,

Then I have thought of other lands, whose storms
Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just

Have wished me there;-the thought that mine was free
Has checked that wish, and I have raised my head,
And cried in thraldom to that furious wind,

Blow on!

This is the land of liberty!

XXXIV. JUGURTHA'S PRISON THOUGHTS.

C. WOLFE.

?

ELL-is the rack prepared-the pincers heated? Where is the scourge How-not employed in Rome? We have them in Numidia. Not in Rome? I'm sorry for it; I could enjoy them now-I might have felt them yesterday; but now, now I have seen my funeral procession; the chariot-wheels of Marius have rolled o'er me- -his horses' hoofs have trampled me in triumph—I have attained that terrible consummation my soul could stand aloof, and from on high look down upon the ruins of my body, smiling in apathy !—I feel no longer -I challenge Rome to give another pang!

Gods! how he smiled, when he beheld me pause before his car, and scowl upon the mob! The curse of Rome was burning on my lips; and I had gnawed my chain, and hurled it at him-but that I knew he would have smiled again !—A king, and led before the gaudy Marius! before those shouting masters of the world-as if I had been conquered! while each street, each peopled wall, and each insulting window, pealed forth their brawling triumphs o'er my head. Oh! for a lion from thy woods, Numidia! Or had I, in that moment of disgrace, enjoyed the freedom but of yonder slave, I would have made my monument in Rome ! Yet am I not that fool,—that Roman fool,—to think disgrace entombs the hero's soul—for ever damps his fires, and dims his glories; that no bright laurel can adorn the brow that once was bowed, no victory's trumpet-sound can drown in joy the rattling of his chains: no;-could one glimpse of victory and vengeance dart preciously across me, I could kiss thy footstep's dust again; then, all in flame, with Massinissa's energies unquenched, start from beneath thy chariot-wheels, and grasp the gory laurel reeking in my view, and force a passage, through disgrace, to glory!—victory, vengeance-glory!-Oh, these chains! My soul's in fetters, too; for, from this moment, through all eternity I see but death. Then come, and let me gloom upon the past.

Sleep! I'll sleep no more, until I sleep for ever! When I last slept, I heard Adherbal scream. I'll sleep no more! I'll think-until I die; my eyes shall pore upon my miseries, until my miseries shall be no more. Yet wherefore was that scream? Why, I have heard his living scream--it was not half so frightful. Whence comes the difference? When the man was living, why I did gaze upon his couch of torments with placid vengeance; and each anguished cry gave me stern satisfaction! Now, he's dead, and his lips move not; yet his voice's image flashed such a dreadful darkness o'er my soul, I would not mount Numidia's throne again, did every night bring such a scream as that. Oh, yes! 'twas I who caused