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At length broke under me, and now has left me,
Enter Cromwell, amazedly.
Why, how now, Cromwell? Crom. I have no power to speak, sir. '5 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?
20 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, —< 25 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, 't is a burden, Cromwell, 't is a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heavea 30 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,
* That is, the ruin which princes inflict.
Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Is your displeasure with the king. 6 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 10 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?15 Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome. Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury. Wol. That's news, indeed.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,3
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down! 0
25 The king has gone beyond me; all my glories
SO I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now
* Anne Boleyn, the second wife of King Henry VIII
(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. 5 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. 10 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. 15 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 more must be heard of, — 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;
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: 26 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, 30 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;
And Prithee, lead me in:
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
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 Curo> berland, 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 dtd not attract much attention. Indeed, for many years his poetry made little impression on the general public, and that not of a favom. blekind. The " Edinburgh Review,"—the great authority in matters of literary taste— iot Its face against him; and Wordsworth's own style and manner were .1o 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 who 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 Boui, lofty dignity of sentiment, and in his best passages, aserene, 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
raphia Llteraria," 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 book of "The Excursion," a de*criptive and philosophical poem in twelve books.]
1 Almost at the root
Oft stretches towards me like a long straight path,
2 He grew up
With startling summons: not for his delight
8 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts