Of them that stood encircling his despair,

He heard some friendly words, but knew not what they

were.

For now, to mourn their judge and child, arrives
With solemn rites between,

A faithful band.

'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,
His woodland guide; but words had none to soothe
The grief that knew not consolation's name;
Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came
Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame.

"And I could weep," th' Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun,
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son,
Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath

(That fires yon heaven with storms of death)
Shall light us to the foe;

And we shall share, my Christian boy,

The foeman's blood, th' avenger's joy.

"But thee, my flower, whose breath was given By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep;

Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit, grieve
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave

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,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?

Seek we thy once-loved home?

The hand is gone that cropped its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers;
And should we thither roam,

Its echoes and its empty tread

Would sound like voices from the dead.

"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,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone,
And stones themselves, to ruin grown,
Like me are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there
The silence dwells of my despair.

"But hark, the trump!

-

to-morrow thou

In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:

Even from the land of shadows now

My father's awful ghost appears,

Amidst the clouds that round us roll:

He bids my soul for battle thirst:

Reflections of Cardinal Wolsey after his Fall from the Favor of Henry VIII. SHAKSPEARE.

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!
There is betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
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.

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?

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,

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,)

To 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 learnéd man.

May he continue

Long in his highness' 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?

Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,
Installed 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 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! O
Cromwell,

.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;

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

(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.