« VorigeDoorgaan »
To hear ine speak his good now?
CATH. Yes, good Cromwell, I were malicious else.
CROM. This cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour from his
cradle : He was a fcholar, and a ripe and good one ;. Exceeding wife, fair spoken, and persuad
Lofty and four, to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that fought him, fweet as
the summer. And though he were unsaitsfy'd in getting, (Which was a sin) yet in bestowing, Ma
dam, He was most princely ; ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he rais’d in
you, Ipswich and Oxford ! one of which fell with
him, Unwilling to out-live the good he did it:
The other, though unfinish’d, yet so fa
mous, So excellent' in art, and still so rising, That Christendom fh all ever speak his vir
tue, His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him ; For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little : And to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he dy'd, fearing
death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption, But such an honest chronicler as Cromwell. Whom I most hated living thou hast made
me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him !
Hasan; or, the Camel Driver.
In filent horror, o'er the boundless waste,
fue, Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the
view ! With desperate forrow wild, th' affrighted
Thrice figh'd, thrice struck his breast, and
thus began : VOL. II.
• Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
[way ! When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my
Ah ! little thought I of the blasting wind, The thirst or pinching hunger that I find ! Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst al
fwage, When fails this cruse, his unrelenting rage ; Soon shall this fcrip its precious load resign ; Then what but tears and hunger shall be
Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear In all my griefs a more than equal share ! Here, where no springs in murmurs break
away, Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day, In vain ye hope the green delights to know, Which plains inore bless’d, or verdant vales
bestow : Mere rocks alone, and tasteless fands are found,
(around. And faint and fickly winds for ever howl
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the
day, When firft from Schiraz' walls I bent my
Curft be the gold and silver which persuade
money tempts us o'er the detart brown,
song? Or wherefore think the flowry mountain's
fide, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,