ACROSS THE FIELDS OF BARLEY.

To-morrow, ma, I'm sweet sixteen,
And William Grimes, the drover,
Has popped the question to me, ma,
And wants to be my lover.
To-morrow morn, he says, mamma,
He's coming here right early,
To take a pleasant walk with me
Across the fields of barley.

You must not go, my daughter dear-
There's no use now a-talking,
You shall not go across the fields
With William Grimes a-walking.
To think of his presumption, too,
A dirty ugly drover!

I wonder where your pride has gone
To think of such a rover,

Old Grimes is dead you know, mamma,
And William is so lonely;
Besides, they say, to Grimes' estate,
That William is the only
Surviving heir that's left,

And that, they say, is nearly
A good five thousand pounds, mamma-
About three hundred yearly.

I did not hear, my daughter dear,
Your last remark quite clearly;
But William is a clever lad,

And no doubt loves you dearly;
Remember, then, to-morrow morn
To be up bright and early,

And take a pleasant walk with him
Across the fields of barley.

Anon.

WOLSEY AND CROMWELL.

Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness ! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours 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 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 for ever 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' favours! 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,

Never to hope again-

Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Cromwell. I have no power to speak, sir.

Wol.
What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline? Nay, an' you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

Crom.

Wol.

How does your grace?

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 cur'd meI humbly thank his grace-and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken

A load would sink a navy-too much honour.

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 learned man. May he continue

Long in his highness' favour, 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 orphan's 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 pulled me down. O Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me; all my glories

In that one woman I have lost for ever:

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,

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.
The king shall have my service; but my prayers
For ever, and for ever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd 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 more must be heard of, say I taught thee;
Say, Wolsey-that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour-
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that 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 fall'st, O 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. O 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.

Crom. Good sir, have patience.

Wol.

The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

Shakespere.

LUCY GRAY.

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And when I cross'd the wild,
I chanced to see, at break of day,
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor-
The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green,
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

"To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go ;
And take the lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow."

"That, father, will I gladly do! 'Tis scarcely afternoonThe minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon."

At this the father raised his hook
And snapp'd a faggot brand;
He plied his work, and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Nor blither is the mountain roe;
With many a wanton stroke,
Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time ;
She wandered up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reach'd the town.