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EVE TO ADAM.

ADAM TO MICHAEL.

THE DEPARTURE.

Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day His providence, and on him sole depen:),
That must be mortal to us both? O flowers, Merciful over all his works, with good
That never will in other climate grow,

Still overcoming evil, and by small
My early visitation, and my last

Accomplishing great things, by things deemed
At even, which I bred up with tender hand

weak
From the first opening bud, and gave ye names ! Subverting worldly strong, and worldly wise
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank By simply meek ; that suffering for truth's sake
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? Is fortitude to highest victory,
Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned And to the faithful death the gate of liie :
With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee Taught this by his example, whom I now
How shall I part, and whither wander down Acknowledge my Redeemer ever blest.
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustomed to immortal fruits ?

WITH sorrow and heart's distress

Wearied, I fell asleep. But now lead on ;
THE EXILE FROM PARADISE.

In me is no delay ; with thee to go,
Is to stay here ; without thee here to stay,

Is to go hence unwilling ; thou to me
GENTLY hast thou told

Art all things under heaven, all places thou,
Thy message, which might else in telling wound, Who for my wilful crime art banished hence.
And in performing end us. What besides

This further consolation, yet secure,
Of sorrow, and dejection, and despair

I carry hence ; though all by me is lost,
Our frailty can sustain, thy tidings bring ; Such favor 1 unworthy am vouchsafed,
Departure from this happy place, our sweet

By me the promised Seed shall all restore.
Recess, and only consolation left,
Familiar to our eyes, all places else
Inhospitable appear and desolate,

In either hand the hastening angel caught
Nor knowing us nor known ; and if by prayer
Incessant I could hope to change the will

Our lingering parents, and to the eastern gate

Led them direct, and down the cliff as fast
Of Him who all things can, I would not cease

To the subjected plain ; then disappeared.
To weary him with my assiduous cries.

They, looking back, all the eastern side beheld
But prayer against his absolute decree

Of Paradise, so late their happy seat,
No more avails than breath against the wind,
Blown stifling back on him that breathes it forth; With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms.

Waved over by that flaming brand ; the gate
Therefore to his great bidding I submit.

Some natural tears they dropt, but wiped them This most afflicts me, that, departing lence,

soon;
As from his face I shall be hid, deprived

The world was all before them, where to choose
His blessed countenance, here I could frequent
With worship place by place where he vouchsafed They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.
Presence divine, and to my sons relate,

slow,
On this mount he appeared ; under this tree

Through Eden took their solitary way.
Stood visible ; among these pines his voice
I heard ; here with him at this fountain talked :
So many grateful altars I would rear
Of grassy turf, and pile up every stone

WOOLSEY'S FALL.
Of luster from the brook, in memory
Or monument to ages, and thereon
Offer sweet-smelling gums, and fruits, and flowers. FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
In yonder nether world where shall I seek This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth
His bright appearances, or footstep trace ? The tender leaves of hope ; to-morrow blossoms,
For though I fled him angry, yet, recalled And bears his blushing honors thick upon him :
To life prolonged and promised race, I now The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
Gladly behold though but his utmost skirts And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
Of glory, and far off his steps adore.

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,
And love with fear the only God, to walk

This many summers in a sea of glory ;
As in his presence, ever to observe

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride

MILTON,

FROM

HENRY VIII."

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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

SHAKESPEARE.

FROM

HENRY VIII."

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

well;

A LAMENT.

No more,

No more,

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

And — when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention O WORLD! O Life! 0 Time !
Of me more must be heard of — say, I taught thee, On whose last steps I climb,
Say, Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory, Trembling at that where I had stood before ;
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor When will return the glory of your prime ?
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;

O nevermore !
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Out of the day and night
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition : A joy has taken flight:
By that sin fell the angels ; how can man, then, Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
Love thyself last : cherish those hearts that hate

O nevermore!
thee :
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:

"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,
There take an inventory of all I have,

Withered and shaken,
To the last penny; 't is the king's: my robe, What can an old man do but die ?
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Love will not clip him,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal

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,
What can an old man do but die?

mine age

SHAKESPEARE.

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 !
A dancing leg and a laughing eye!

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 ?

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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,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walked as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more ;
A moderate pace would now my body heat,
A walk of moderate length distress my feet. .
I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,
But said, “The view is poor, we need not climb.”
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ;
At home I felt a more decided taste,
And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more ; I learned to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute

The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

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Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told.'
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled !
Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old.

Was disappointed that I did not shoot.
My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;
The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;
Small daily actions into habits grew,
And new dislike to forms and fashions new.
I loved my trees in order to dispose ;
I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ;
Told the same story oft, -in short, began to prose.

“I have tottered here to look once more

On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

To the core :
I have tottered here to look once more.

GEORGE CRABBE.

OLD.

"All the picture now to me how dear!

E’en this gray old rock where I am seated,
By. the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Is a jewel worth my journey here ;
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ;

Ah that such a scene must be completed
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,

With a tear !
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ; All the picture now to me how dear!

Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Old stone school-house!-it is still the same;
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ; There's the window creaking in its frame,

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
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;

For the game.
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding ;

Old stone school-house, it is still the same.
There he sat !
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

“In the cottage yonder I was born ;
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;

There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,

There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ;
And the furrows all so mutely pleading

Ah, forlorn !
Age and care :

In the cottage yonder I was born.
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

“Those two gateway sycamores you see
It was summer, and we went to school,

Then were planted just so far asunder
Dapper country lads and little maidens; That long well-pole from the path to free,
Taught the motto of the “Dunce's Stool,

And the wagon to pass safely under ;
Its grave import still my fancy ladens,

Ninety-three !
6Here's a fool !”

Those two gateway sycamores you see.
It was summer, and we went to school.

“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,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,

Thinking nothing of the flight of time,
I remember well, too well, that day !

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ;
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,

Past its prime!
Would not stay

There's the orchard where we used to climb.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play.

“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 ;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;

“There's the mill that ground our yellow grain ;

Pond and river still serenely flowing ;

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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,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

With all the appliances of joy at hand,
To the core !

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,

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