O UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death! Must I thus leave thee, Paradise? thus leave Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of gods; where I had hope to spend, Quiet, though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both? O flowers, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At even, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names! Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount? Thee, lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorned With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down 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; 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 Art all things under heaven, all places thou, Who for my wilful crime art banished hence. This further consolation, yet secure, I carry hence; though all by me is lost, Such favor I unworthy am vouchsafed, By me the promised Seed shall all restore.
FROM "HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.
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 honors thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening — nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, 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, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye : I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspéct of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-O WORLD! O Life! O Time! Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ; On whose last steps I climb, A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling 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
Trembling at that where I had stood before. When will return the glory of your prime ? No more, O nevermore!
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; 't is the king's my robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Crom- well!
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!
Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more, O nevermore !
"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"
SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken,
What can an old man do but die ?
CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.
From mountain top to base, a whispering sea WAVE after wave of greenness rolling down Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze
THERE is such power even in smallest things
To bring the dear past back; a flower's tint, A snatch of some old song, the fleeting glint Of sunbeams on the wave- each vivid brings
The lost days up, as from the idle strings
Of wind-harp sad a breeze evokes the hint Of antique tunes. A glove which keeps imprint Of a loved hand the heart with torture wrings
By memory of a clasp meant more than speech;
A face seen in the crowd with curve of cheek Or sweep of eyelash our woe's core can reach.
How strong is love to yearn, and yet how weak
To strive with fate: the lesson all things teach, As of the past in myriad ways they speak.
LIFE, like a romping school-boy full of glee, Doth bear us on his shoulders for a time: There is no path too steep for him to climb, With strong lithe limbs, as agile and as free As some young roe, he speeds by vale and sea, By flowery mead, by mountain-peak sublime, And all the world seems motion set to rhyme, Till, tired out, he cries, "Now carry me!"
In vain we murmur. "Come," Life says, "Fair play," And seizes on us. God! He goads us so.
He does not let us sit down all the day. At each new step we feel the burden grow, Till our bent backs seem breaking as we go, Watching for Death to meet us on the way.
THE APPROACH OF AGE. FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."
SIX years had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;
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 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.
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; Oft I marked him sitting there alone, All the landscape, like a page, perusing; Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
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