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 ight 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.
So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court ! my hopes in heaven do dwell.
Shakespere.
“ That, father, will I gladly do !
'Tis scarcely afternoon The 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 band.
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,
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide ;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stood
That overlook'd the moor,
And thence they saw the bridge of wood
A furlong from their door.
And, turning homeward, now they cried,
“ In heaven we all shall meet !" When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small,
And through the brol:en hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall.
And then an open field they cross'd
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost,
And to the bridge they came.
They follow'd from the
snowy
bank
The footmarks one by one,
Into the middle of the plank,
And further there were none.
Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child ;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind,
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.
“PAY YOUR TITHES ! PAY YOUR TITHES !” was the holy
man's cry ; “ PAY YOUR TITHES ! PAY YOUR TITHES IF YOU'D QUIETLY
DIE ; PAY YOUR TITHES ! IF IN PEACE IN YOUR GRAVES YOU WOULD LIE !”
Stop, stop, Mr. Smith !” is the reader's remark-
“Of whom do you speak, sir ? -we're quite in the
dark !"
Exactly, kind friends, I'll explain, if you'll hark.
Ere Britain emerged from the heathenish state
Which once she was plunged in—as Hume doth relate-
A very great gentleman travelled from Rome,
By request of the Pope, and made England his home ;
He was sent to preserve people's morals from rustin'.
To teach and to preach, and was called St. Augustine.
'Tis not in my knowledge
To say at what college
He gained his degree or diploma of Saint ;
I have heard it said
In fact I have read
That the gentleman's right to the title was faint ;
But then, what of that ? there is none without taint,
And to seem what we are not’s a common complaint.
Time would fail me to tell of the sermons he preached,
How he talked to the people, raved, threatened, beseeched,
How he preached every morning, whate'er might betide,
And got up an afternoon lecture beside,
With an extra collection at Whitsuntide ;
How he chiefly insisted on saints, priests, and Latin,
Beads, penance, and fasting—he always brought that in-
And how the great moral of all that he said
Was that which you've read
In small caps overhead“Pay your tithes ! pay your tithes ! if you'd quietly die ; Pay your tithes ! if in peace in your graves you would lie i”
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