To final battle drew, disdaining flight

Or faint retreat; when the great Son of God

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To all his host on either hand thus spake :

"Stand still in bright array, ye saints! here stand,

Ye angels arm'd, this day from battle rest:
Faithful hath been your warfare, and of God
Accepted, fearless in his righteous cause;

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ye done

And as ye have receiv'd, so have
Invincibly: but of this cursed crew
The punishment to other hand belongs;
Vengeance is his, or whose he sole appoints.
Number to this day's work is not ordain'd,
Nor multitude; stand only, and behold
God's indignation on these godless pour'd
By me.

Not you, but me, they have despis'd,
Yet envied; against me is all their rage,

Because the Father, to whom in heaven supreme
Kingdom, and power, and glory appertains,

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Hath honor'd me according to his will.

Therefore to me their doom he hath assign'd;

That they may have their wish, to try with me

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In battle which the stronger proves; they all,
Or I alone against them, since by strength
They measure all, of other excellence
Not emulous, nor care who them excels;

"So spake the Son, and into terror chang'd

Nor other strife with them do I vouchsafe.'

His count'nance, too severe to be beheld,
And full of wrath bent on his enemies.

At once the Four spread out their starry wings
With dreadful shade contiguous, and the orbs
Of his fierce chariot roll'd, as with the sound
Of torrent floods, or of a numerous host.
He on his impious foes right onward drove,
Gloomy as night: under his burning wheels

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The steadfast empyrean shook throughout,

All but the throne itself of God.

Full soon

Among them he arriv'd, in his right hand
Grasping ten thousand thunders, which he sent
Before him, such as in their souls infix'd
Plagues. They, astonish'd, all resistance lost,

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All courage; down their idle weapons dropp'd;

O'er shields, and helms, and helmed heads he rode

Of thrones and mighty seraphim prostrate,

That wish'd the mountains now might be again

Thrown on them, as a shelter from his ire.

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Among th' accurs'd, that wither'd all their strength,

And of their wonted vigor left them drain'd,

Exhausted, spiritless, afflicted, fall'n.

Yet half his strength he put not forth, but check'd

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His thunder in mid volley; for he meant

Not to destroy, but root them out of heaven:
The overthrown he raised, and, as a herd
Of goats or tim'rous flock together throng'd,

Drove them before him thunder-struck, pursued

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With terrors and with furies, to the bounds

And crystal wall of heaven; which, opening wide,

Roll'd inward, and a spacious gap disclos'd

Into the wasteful deep. The monstrous sight

Struck them with horror backward, but far worse

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Urg'd them behind; headlong themselves they threw

Down from the verge of heaven; eternal wrath
Burn'd after them to the bottomless pit.

"Hell heard the unsufferable noise; Hell saw

Heaven ruining from heaven, and would have fled
Affrighted: but strict Fate had cast too deep

Her dark foundations, and too fast had bound.
Nine days they fell; confounded Chaos roar'd,
And felt tenfold confusion in their fall

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Through his wild anarchy, so huge a rout

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Encumber'd him with ruin. Hell at last,

Yawning, receiv'd them whole, and on them clos'd:
Hell, their fit habitation, fraught with fire

Unquenchable, the house of woe and pain.

Disburden'd heaven rejoic'd, and soon repair'd
Her mural breach, returning whence it roll❜d.

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"Sole victor, from th' expulsion of his foes,

Messiah his triumphal chariot turn'd;

To meet him, all his saints, who silent stood
Eye-witnesses of his almighty acts,

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With jubilee advanc'd; and, as they went,

Shaded with branching palm, each order bright
Sung triumph, and him sung victorious King,
Son, Heir, and Lord! to him dominion given,
Worthiest to reign. He, celebrated, rode
Triumphant through mid heaven, into the courts
And temple of his mighty Father thron'd
On high; who into glory him receiv'd,
Where now he sits at the right hand of bliss."

THE FALL OF WOLSEY.-[SHAKSPEARE.]
[FROM HENRY VIII.]

Wolsey. So farewell to the little good you bear me.
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

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5

His greatness is a' ripening,-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
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 open'd: 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,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have ;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

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Never to hope again.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

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What, amaz'd

Cromwell. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.-
At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder,
A great man should decline?

I am fallen indeed.

Crom.-How does your grace?

Wol.

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

Nay, an' you weep,

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Why, well;

I know myself now; and I feel within me

A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd

I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruin'd 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.

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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.

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

The heaviest and the worst,

God bless him!

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Crom. The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen 50 Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol.-That's somewhat sudden :

But he's a learned man.--May he continue
Long in his highness' favor, and do justice

For truth's sake, and his conscience; that his bones, 55
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 return'd with welcome,
Install'd 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 view'd in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel; and the voice is now
Only about her coronation.

Wol.-There was the weight that pull'd 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,

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