At length broke under me, and now has left me, Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. 15 20 Never to hope again. Enter CROMWELL, amazedly. CROM. I have no power to speak, sir. Why, how now, Cromwell? What, amazed Nay, an you weep How does your grace? Why, well; WOL. CROM. WOL. Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me, 25 I humbly thank his grace, and from these shoulders, These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken 30 A load would sink a navy — 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. (Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,) To endure more miseries, and greater far, methinks, * That is, the ruin which princes inflict. 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 10 Long in his highness's favor, and do justice 15 For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones, 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, 10 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! 0 25 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; 30 I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seck the king: That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him *Anne Boleyn, the second wife of King Henry VIII 5 (I know his noble nature) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, For thine own future safety. CROM. Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, WOL. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear 15 Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell; And, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention say, I taught thee Say, Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory, 20 And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor - Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; ; Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, 30 To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not. Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, 35 There take an inventory of all I have, To the last penny; 't is the king's; my robe, And my integrity to Heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, I served my king, he would not in mine age 5 Have left me naked to mine enemies. CROM. Good sir, have patience. WOL. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell. LXXVII. -THE DEAF MAN'S GRAVE. [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH was born at Cockermouth, in the county of Cumberland, England, April 7, 1770, and died April 23, 1850. His life was passed for the most part in that beautiful region of England where he was born, and with which so much of his poetry is inseparably associated. He made his first appearance as an author in 1793, by the publication of a thin quarto volume of poems, which did not attract much attention. Indeed, for many years his poetry made little impression on the general public, and that not of a favorable kind. The "Edinburgh Review,"- the great authority in matters of literary taste- set its face against him; and Wordsworth's own style and marner were so peculiar, and so unlike those of the poetry which was popular at the time, that he was obliged to create the taste by which he himself was judged. As time went on, his influence and popularity increased, and many years before his death he enjoyed a fame and consideration which in calmness and serenity resembled the unbiassed judgment of posterity. Wordsworth's popularity has never been of that comprehensive kind which Scott and Byron possessed. He had many intense admirers; but there were also many who were insensible to his claims, and many whɔ admired him only with qualifications and limitations. He is often cold, languid, and prosaic. He is deficient in the power of presenting pictures. He often attempts to give poetical interest to themes which lie entirely out of the domain of poetry. He has no humor, and no sense of the ludicrous; and many of his poems are obnoxious to the attack of ridicule. But on the other hand, there are very great and enduring excellences. Among these are most careful precision and accuracy of diction, a minute acquaintance and deep sympathy with nature, power and tenderness in the expression of the domestic affections, a philosophical insight into the workings of the human soul, lofty dignity of sentiment, and in his best passages, a serene, imaginative grandeur akin to that of Milton. Wordsworth's character was pure and high. He was reserved in manner, and somewhat exclusive in his tastes and sympathies; but his friends were warmly attached to him. His domestic affections were strong and deep. His life has been published, since his decease, by his nephew, the Rev. Christopher Wordsworth, and republished in this country. In Coleridge's "Biog rapñia Literaria," there is an admirable review of his poetical genius, in which praise is bestowed generously and discriminatingly, and defects are pointed out with a loving and reverent hand. The following extract is from the seventh bock of "The Excursion," a descriptive and philosophical poem in twelve books.] 1 2 ALMOST at the root Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare Oft stretches towards me like a long straight path, He grew up From year to year in loneliness of soul; And this deep mountain valley was to him Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds Was silent as a picture: evermore Were all things silent wheresoe'er he moved. 3 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts. |