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For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
“How much the wife is dearer than the bride !"
SHE stood beside him, in the spring-tide hour
MRS. C. B. WILSON.
THE MINSTREL. THERE lived in gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd-swain, a man of low degree : Whose sires, perchance, in fairy-land might dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady. But he, I ween, was of the north countrie ; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms; Ze yet ; innocent, though free ;
Patient of toil; serene, amidst alarms;
The shepherd-swain of whom I mention made,
And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent, Did guide and guard their wanderings, wheresoe'er
they went From labour health, from health contentment
springs, Contentment opes the source of every joy: He envied not, he never thought of, kings; Nor from those appetites sustain'd annoy, That chance may frustrate, or indulgence cloy: Nor Fate his calm and humble hopes beguiled; He mourn'd no recreant friend, nor mistress coy
For on his vows the blameless Phæbe smiled,
No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast,
They never roam'd; secure beneath the storm
Where peace and love are canker'd by the worm Of pride, each bud of joy industrious to deform.
The wight, whose tales these artless lines unfold,
The gossip's prayer for wealth, and wit, and worth; And one long summer-day of indolence and mirth.
And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy ;
The neighbours stared and sigh’d, yet blest the lado Some deem'd him wondrous wise, and some believed
him mad. But why should I his childish feats display? Concourse, and noise, and toil, he ever fed ; Nor cared to mingle in the clamorous fray Of squabbling imps, but to the forest sped, Or roam'd at large the lonely mountain's head : Or, where the maze of some bewilder'd stream To deep untrodden groves his footsteps led,
There would he wander wild, till Phæbus' beam, Shot from the western cliff, released the weary team
Th' exploit of strength, dexterity, or speed,
These he detested, those he scorn'd to wield; He wish'd to be the guardian, not the king, Tyrant far less, or traitor of the field ; And sure the sylvan reign unbloody joy might yield;
Lo! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine; And sees, on high, amid th' encircling groves, From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine : While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join, And Echo swells the chorus to the skies. Would Edwin this majestic scene resign For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ? Ah! no: he better knows great Nature's charms to
prize. And oft he traced the uplands, to survey, When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn, The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain gray, And lake, dim gleaming on the smoky lawn ; Far to the west the long long vale withdrawn, Where twilight loves to linger for awhile; And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,
A villager abroad at early toil.But lo! the sun appears! and heaven, earth, ocean
smile. And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb, When all in mist the world below was lost: What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th' enormous waste of vapour tost In billows, lengthening to th' horizon round, Now scoop'd in gulfs, with mountains now em
boss'd! And hear the sound of mirth and song rebound, Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar pro
found. In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle and each dreadful scene:
In darkness, and in storm, he found delight:
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL.
Nay then, farewell. I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness ; And from that full meridian of my glory, I haste now to my setting : I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. 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 honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness was a ripening,-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, 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 for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!