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EVE TO ADAM.
ADAM TO MICHAEL.
Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day His providence, and on him sole depen:),
Still overcoming evil, and by small
Accomplishing great things, by things deemed
WITH sorrow and heart's distress
Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ;
In me is no delay ; with thee to go,
Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me
Art all things under heaven, all places thou,
This further consolation, yet secure,
I carry hence ; though all by me is lost,
By me the promised Seed shall all restore.
In either hand the hastening angel caught
Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate
Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
To the subjected plain ; then disappeared.
They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate
Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them This most afflicts me, that, departing lence,
The world was all before them, where to choose
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
Through Eden took their solitary way.
His greatness is a ripening — nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, Henceforth I learn that to obey is best,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This 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, Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees Weary and old with service, to the mercy
The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro; Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. For them no green boughs wait, their memories Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : Of last year's April had deceived them so.” I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors ! She watched the homeless birds, the slow, sad There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
spring, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. More pangs and fears than wars or women have : “ Thus God has dealt with me, his child,” she said; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
“I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. Never to hope again.
“To them will come the fullness of their time;
Their spring, though late, will make the meadCARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH TO CROMWELL.
ows fair; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ?
I am his own, - doth not my Father care ?" 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, Crom
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
O nevermore !
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE ?" Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O
SPRING it is cheery, Cromwell !
Winter is dreary, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; Serve the king ; and —- pr’ythee, lead me in :
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken,
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him, I served my king, he would not in mine
Maud and Marian pass him by ; Have left me naked to mine enemies !
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,
THE LATE SPRING.
She stood alone amidst the April fields,
Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. “The spring is late,” she said, “the faithless
June it was jolly,
O for its folly !
Youth may be silly,
spring, That should have come to make the meadows fair.
Wisdom is chilly, What can an old man do but die ?
They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of time
Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round
Through the town.
But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets
So forlorn ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said,
They are gone.”
The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
The mossy marbles rest
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told.'
Down it rolled !
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.
“I have tottered here to look once more
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
To the core :
"All the picture now to me how dear!
E’en this gray old rock where I am seated,
Is a jewel worth my journey here ;
Ah that such a scene must be completed
With a tear !
Old stone school-house!-it is still the same;
There's the very step I so oft mounted ; Coat as ancient as the form ’t was folding ;
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game.
Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
“In the cottage yonder I was born ;
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;
There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ;
Ah, forlorn !
In the cottage yonder I was born.
“Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
And the wagon to pass safely under ;
Those two gateway sycamores you see.
“There's the orchard where we used to climb When the stranger seemed to mark our play,
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ;
Past its prime!
There's the orchard where we used to climb.
“There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, 0, to me her name was always Heaven !
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing, She besought him all his grief to tell,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Isabel !
Traps and trails !
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old ;
“There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ;
Pond and river still serenely flowing ;
Nor in the laughing bowers, There my Mary blest me with her hand When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Where by green swinging elms a pleasant shade
At summer's noon is made, Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
And where swift-footed hours Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ;
Steal the rich breath of enamored flowers, Broken band !
Dream I. Nor where the golden glories be, There my Mary blest me with her hand.
At sunset, laving o'er the flowing sea;
And to pure eyes the faculty is given “I have come to see that grave once more, To trace a smooth ascent from Earth to Heaven !
And the sacred place where we delighted, Where we worshiped, in the days of yore,
Not on a couch of ease,
With all the appliances of joy at hand,
Soft light, sweet fragrance, beauty at command ; I have come to see that grave once more.
Viands that might a godlike palate please,
And music's soul-creative ecstasies, Angel," said he sadly, “I am old ;
Dream I. Nor gloating o’er a wide estate, Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Till the full, self-complacent heart elate,