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"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,
The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep;

Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit, grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most: She was the rainbow to thy sightThy sunthy heaven of lost delight!

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"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropped its flowers; Unheard their clock repeats its hours; Cold is the hearth within their bowers; And should we thither roam, Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead.

"Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft? Ah! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent dwells alone, Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves, to ruin grown, Like me are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there
The silence dwells of my despair.

"But hark, the trump!

In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,

Amidst the clouds that round us roll:
He bids my soul for battle thirst:
He bids me dry the last the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

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to-morrow thou

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief."

LESSON CXXXVII.

Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey after his Fall from the Favor of Henry VIII. SHAKSPEARE.

Wol. 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,
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 he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect 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.

Wol. What, amazed

At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom. How does your grace?

Wol. Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

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

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,-
I humbly thank his grace, and from these shoulders,
These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy-too much honor.
O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden,

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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,

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol. God bless him!

Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor, in your place.

Wol. That's somewhat sudden;
But he's a learned man. May he continue
Long in his highness' 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?

Crom. 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. Good Cromwell,
Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
For thine own future safety.

Crom. O my lord,

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,

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And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of,—say, 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 that 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,

And 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 blesséd martyr! Serve the king;

And, Pr'ythee, lead me in:

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 naked left me to mine enemies.

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol. So I have.

Farewell

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

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