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Of them that stood encircling his despair,
For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
A faithful band. With solemn rites between, 'Twas sung, how they were lovely in their lives,
And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music, and the melting scene,
Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd: Stern warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud While woman's softer soul in woe dissolved aloud.
Then mournfully the parting bugle bid
Its farewell, o'er the grave of worth and truth; Prone to the dust, afflicted Waldegrave hid
His face on earth ; — him watched, in gloomy ruth,
The grief that knew not consolation's name;
“And I could weep," th' Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun,
Or bow this head in woe;
Shall light us to the foe;
“But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,
Nor will the Christian host,
Of her who loved thee most : She was the rainbow to thy sight Thy sun thy heaven of lost delight!
“ To-morrow let us do or die !
But when the bolt of death is hurled,
Seek we thy once-loved home?
And should we thither roam,
“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,
Like me are death-like old.
“But hark, the trump!
Amidst the clouds that round us roll :
From Outalissi's soul ;
Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey after his Fall fron
the Favor of Henry VIII.
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 !
Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.
Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.
Wol. What, amazed
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, 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,
Crom. The heaviest, and the worst,
Wol. God bless him !
Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord chancellor, in your place.
Wol. That's somewhat sudden;
Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Wol. That's news, indeed.
Crom. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Seek the king;
Crom. O my lord,