Shoots downward, glittering thro' the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-
Thou too again, stupendous mountain thou,
That as I raise my head, a while bow'd low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffus'd with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit thron'd among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.
COLERIDGE.

XXVII.-A Panegyric on Great Britain. HAPPY Britannia! where the Queen of Arts, Inspiring vigour, Liberty abroad Walks, unconfin'd, even to thy farthest cots, And scatters plenty with unsparing hand. Rich is thy soil, and merciful thy clime; Thy streams unfailing in the summer's drought: Unmatch'd thy guardian oaks; thy valleys float With golden waves; and on thy mountains flocks Bleat numberless; while roving round their sides, Bellow the blackening herds in lusty droves. Beneath, thy meadows glow, and rise unquell'd Against the mower's scythe. On every hand Thy villas shine. Thy country teems with wealth; And property assures it to the swain, Pleas'd, and unwearied, in his guarded toil.

Full are thy cities with the sons of Art;
And trade, and joy, in every busy street,
Mingling are heard; even Drudgery himself,
As at the car he sweats, or dusty hews

The palace stone, looks gay. Thy crowded ports,
Where rising masts an endless prospect yield,
With labour burn, and echo to the shouts
Of hurried sailor, as he hearty waves

His last adieu, and, loosening every sheet,
Resigns the spreading vessel to the wind.
Bold, firm, and graceful, are thy generous youth,
By hardship sinew'd, and by danger fir'd,
Scattering the nations where they go; and first,
Or on the listed plain, or stormy seas.

THOMSON.

XXVIII.-Wolsey and Cromwell.

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 honours 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 shoot; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, 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 for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of the world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched Is that poor man who hangs on princes' favour! There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin, More pangs and fears than war or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

At

Crom. I have no power to speak, Sir.
Wol. What, amaz'd

my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline? Nay, if you weep,
I'm fall'n indeed.

Crom. How does you 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 cur'd me,

I humbly thank his Grace; and, from these shoulders,
These ruin'd pillars, out of pity taken

A load would sink a navy, too much honour.
O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heav'n!

Crom. I'm glad your Grace has made that right use of it.
Wol. I hope I have: I'm able now, methinks,
Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,

T'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' favour, 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 orphan's tears wept on him!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome;
Install'd 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 view'd in open as his Queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Wol. There was the weight that pull'd me down: 0 Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me: all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever.

No sun shall ever usher forth my honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell,
I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master. Seek the king,
(That sun I pray may never set) I've 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
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries, but thou hast forc'd 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, say then I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me:
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(Tho' the image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait 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.

And pr'ythee lead me in

Serve the King

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny 'tis the King's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heav'n, is all

I dare now call my own.

O Cromwell, Cromwell,

Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal

I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age
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!

SHAKESPEARE

Containing the more difficult words that occur in the preceding Lessons, (To be got accurately by heart.)