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3. CARDINAL WOLSEY CAST OFF BY HENRY VIII., 1529.-Shakspeare.

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,
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.

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 !
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!

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.
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,

Vain pomp

Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
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 his master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition !
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,
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 fallst, 0 Cromwell,
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr ! Serve the king;
And, Prithee, lead me in :
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny ; 'tis the King's; my robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own: 0, Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, He would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies !

4. MARCELLUS TO THE ROMAN POPULACE.Shakspeare.

Wherefore rejoice that Cæsar comes in triumph ? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome, To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! 0, you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome !

Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The live-long day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome;
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath his banks
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in his concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire ?
And do you now 'cull out a holiday ?
And do you now I strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood ?
Begone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plague,
That needs must light on this ingratitude !

5. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.--Dimond. In slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,

And pleasures that waited on life’s merry morn ; While memory stood sidewise, half covered with flowers,

Restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

The swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the kiss of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse—all hardships seem o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest,

“O God! thou hast blessed me, I ask for no more.” Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye?

Ah ! what is that sound that now 'larms his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky !

'Tis the crashing of thunder, the groan of the sphere ! He springs from his hammock,-he flies to the deck ;

Amazement confronts him with images dire ; Wild winds and waves drive the vessel a-wreck,

The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire !

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell ;

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ;Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death-angel flaps his dark wings o'er the wave.

0, sailor-boy! woe to thy dream of delight !

In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss ;Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright,

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? O, sailor-boy! sailor-boy ! never again

Shall love, home, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main

Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance of thee,

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,

And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,

Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,

And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away,

And still the vast waters shall over thee roll; Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye

O, sailor-boy ! sailor-boy ! peace to thy soul !

LESSON XLVII.

-1. OPPOSITION TO MISGOVERNMENT, 1814.- Daniel Webster.

All the evils which afflict the country are imputed to opposition. It is said to be owing to opposition that the war became necessary; and, owing to opposition also, that it has been prosecuted with no better success. This, sir, is no new strain. It has been sung a thousand times. It is the constant tune of every weak and wicked administration. What minister ever yet acknowledged that the evils which fell on his country were the necessary consequences of his own incapacity, his own folly, or his own corruption ? What possessor of political power ever yet failed to charge the mischiefs resulting from his own measures upon those who had uniformly

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