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These 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 the world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new open’d. Oh, 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 war 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'm 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,

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:
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.

Crom. I'm glad your grace has made that right use of it,

Wol. I hope I have. I'm 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' 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 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! 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. Oh, 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
Forever, and forever, shall be yours.

Wol. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced 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 honor-
Found thee a way out of his wreck to rise in;

A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it !
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, Aling 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,-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. Oh, 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!

(They go out together.)

LESSON CXXIV.

CICERO AGAINST VERRES. MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO, the greatest of Roman orators, was born at Arpinum, 106 B.C. After the assassination of Cæsar, he took part against Antony, at whose demand he was proscribed, and by whose orders he was basely murdered, in his sixty-fourth year.

1. I ASK now, Verres, what have you to advance against this charge? Will you pretend to deny it? Will you pretend that any thing false, that even any thing aggravated, is alleged against you? Had any prince, or any state, committed the same outrage against the privilege of Roman citizens, should we not think we had sufficient ground for declaring immediate war against them?

2. What punishment ought, then, to be inflicted upon a tyrannical and wicked prætor, who dared, at no greater distance than Sicily, within sight of the Italian coast, to put to the infamous death of crucifixion that unfortunate and innocent citizen, Publius Gavius Cosanus, only for his having asserted his privilege of citizenship, and declared his intention of appealing to the justice of his country against a cruel oppressor, who had unjustly confined him in prison at Syracuse, from whence he had just made his escape?

3. The unhappy man, arrested as he was going to embark for his native country, is brought before the wicked prætor. With eyes darting fury, and a countenance distorted with cruelty, he orders the helpless victim of his rage to be stripped, and rods to be brought, accusing him, but without the least shadow of evidence, or even of suspicion, of having come to Sicily as a spy. It was in vain that the unhappy man cried out, “I am a Roman citizen; I have served under Lucius Pretius, who is now at Panormus and will attest my innocence.

4. The blood-thirsty prætor, deaf to all he could urge in his own defence, ordered the infamous punishment to be inflicted. Thus, Fathers, was an innocent Roman citizen publicly mangled with scourging; whilst the only words he uttered amidst his cruel sufferings were, “I am a Roman citizen !” With these he hoped to defend himself from violence and infamy; but of so little service was this privilege to him, that, while he was thus asserting his citizenship, the order was given for his execution,– for his execution upon the cross !

5. O liberty! O sound once delightful to every Roman ear! O sacred privilege of Roman citizenship! once sacred, now trampled upon! But what then? Is it come to this? Shall an inferior magistrate, a governor who holds his whole power of the Roman people, in a Roman province, within sight of Italy, bind, scourge, torture with fire and red-hot plates of iron, and at the last put to the infamous death of the cross, a Roman citizen? Shall neither the cries of innocence expiring in agony, nor the tears of pitying spectators, nor the majesty of the Roman commonwealth, nor the fear of the justice of his country, restrain the licentious and wanton cruelty of a monster who, in confidence of his riches, strikes at the root of liberty and sets man. kind at defiance?

1.

LESSON CXXV.
HYMN AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULAŠKI'S BANNER

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.
: WHEN the dying flame of day

Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowled head;
And the censer burning swung,
Where, before the altar, hung
That proud banner, that with prayer

Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while,
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle:-

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