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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;
5 I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,0
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
10 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. '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.
What news abroad?

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,
20 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;

SO 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

* 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
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
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



[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
Of that tall pine, the shadow of whose bare
And slender stem, while here I sit at eve,

Oft stretches towards me like a long straight path,
Traced faintly in the greensward; there, beneath
A plain blue stone, a gentle dalesman lies,
From whom, in early childhood, was withdrawn
The precious gift of hearing.

2 He grew up
From year to year in loneliness of soul;
And this deep mountain valley was to him
Soundless with all its streams. The bird of dawn
Did never rouse this cottager from sleep

With startling summons: not for his delight
The vernal cuckoo shouted; not for him
Murmured the laboring bee. When stormy winds
Were working the broad bosom of the lake
Into a thousand thousand sparkling waves,
Rocking the trees, and driving cloud on cloud,
Along the sharp edge of yon lofty crags,
The agitated scene before his eye
Was silent as a picture: evermore
Were all things silent wheresoe'er he moved.

8 Yet, by the solace of his own pure thoughts
Upheld, he duteously pursued the round
Of rural labors; the steep mountain-side
Ascended with his staff and faithful dog;The plough he guided, and the scythe he swayed;
And the ripe corn before his sickle fell
Among the jocund reapers. For himself,

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