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I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors i
There is, betwixt that smile he 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!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thine 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

thee,

Say Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of this wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed 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 blesséd martyr! Serve the King
And — pr’ythee, 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 my 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! — Shakespeare.

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THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“ Forward the Light Brigade !
Charge for the guns !” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Forward, the Light, Brigade!”
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho’ the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd :
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do or die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn’d in air
Sab’ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battle-smoke,

Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the saber stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made !
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred ! - Tennyson..

THANATOPSIS

1

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
À various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;
Go forth, under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings, while from all around -
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air,
Comes a still voice — Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings,
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulcher

The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, - the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods — rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, –
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom – Take the wings Of morning — and the Barcan desert pierce, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings— yet — the dead are there : And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep - the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest- and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, ás before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man,Shall one by one be gathered by thy side, By those, who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. Bryant.

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