The Classic and the Beautiful from the Literature of Three Thousand Years

Rose, slowly drest, took up my staff and | The solemn clanging of an iron bell,

went

To Willie's mother's cottage. As I walked, Though all the air was calm and cold and still,

And lastly me and Donald standing both Beside a tiny mound of fresh-heaped earth, And while around the snow began to fall, Mistily, softly, through the icy air,

The blowing wind and dazzled snow were yet Looking at one another, dumb and cold.

Around about. I was bewildered-like.

Ere I had time to think I found myself
Beside a truckle-bed, and at my side
A weeping woman, and I clenched my hands
And looked on Willie, who had gone to sleep.

In death-gown white lay Willie fast asleep,
His blue eyes closed, his tiny fingers clenched,
His lips apart a wee as if he breathed,
His yellow hair kaimed back, and on his
face

A smile, yet not a smile-a dim pale light Such as the snow keeps in its own soft wings:

Ay, he had gone to sleep, and he was sound. And by the bed lay Donald watching still, And when I looked, he whined, but did not

move.

I turned in silence with my nails stuck deep In my clenched palms, but in my heart of hearts

I prayed to God. In Willie's mother's face
There was a cold and silent bitterness:
I saw it plain, but saw it in a dream,
And cared not; so I went my way as grim
As one who holds his breath to slay him-
self.

And Willie's dead! that's all I comprehend.
Ay, bonnie Willie Baird has gone before;
The school, the tempest and the eerie pain
Seem but a dream, and I am weary-like.
I begged old Donald hard: they gave him

me,

And we have lived together in this house
Long years with no companions. There's no
need
Here we dumbly

Of speech between us.

bide, But know each other's sorrow, and we both Feel weary. weary. When the nights are long and cold,

And snow is falling as it falleth now, And wintry winds are moaning, here I dream

Of Willie and the unfamiliar life I left behind me on the norland hills. "Do doggies gang to heaven?" Willie asked, And, ah! what Solomon of modern days Can answer that? Yet here at nights I sit, Reading the Book, with Donald at my side;

And, stooping with the Book upon my knee,

I sometimes gaze in Donald's patient eyes

What followed that is vague as was the So sad, so human, though he cannot speak—

FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

WOLSEY. Farewell, a

OLSEY. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blos- A great man should decline? Nay, and you

And bears his blushing honors thick upon I am fallen indeed.

And when he thinks, good easy man, full I know myself now, and I feel within me

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 for ever hide

Vain

me.

A peace above all earthly dignities,

A still and quiet conscience. The king has

cured me:

I humbly thank His Grace; and from these shoulders,

These ruined pillars, out of pity, taken
A load would sink a navy, too much honor.
Oh, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden,
Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven.
CROM. I am glad Your Grace has made
that right use of it.

WOL. I hope, I have. I am able now, methinks

(Out of a fortitude of soul I feel),

pomp and glory of this world, I hate To endure more miseries, and greater far, ye; Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.

I feel my heart new opened. Oh how What news abroad?

CROM.

wretched The heaviest, and the worst, Is that poor man that hangs on princes' Is your displeasure with the king. favors!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

WOL.
God bless him!
CROM. The next is that Sir Thomas More
is chosen

That sweet aspect of princes, and their Lord chancellor in your place.

ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or woman have;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

WOL. That's somewhat sudden; But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in His Highness' favor, and do justice For truth's sake, and his conscience, that his

bones,

872954

When he has run his course and sleeps in The king shall have my service, but my

CROM. That Cranmer is returned with wel- In all my miseries, but thou hast forced me

come,

Installed lord archbishop of Canterbury.

WOL. That's news indeed.
Ском.
Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
This day was viewed in open, as his queen,
Going to chapel, and the voice is now

Only about her coronation.

Out of thy honest truth to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me,
Cromwell,

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no

mention

Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee;

WOL. There was the weight that pulled Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of

me down. Oh, Cromwell,

The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
In that one woman I have lost for ever;
No sun shall ever usher forth mine honors
Or gild again the noble troops that waited.
Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me,
Cromwell;

I am a poor fallen man, unworthy now
To be thy lord and master. Seek the king;
Seek the king;
That sun, I pray, may never set! I have
told him

What and how true thou art: he will ad

vance thee;

glory,

And sounded all the depths and shoals of

honor,

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise

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 ambi-

tion;

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 thee:

Some little memory of me will stir him (I know his noble nature) not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Crom- Corruption wins not more than honesty. well,

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

Neglect him not; make use now, and provide To silence envious tongues. Be just, and For thine own future safety.

fear not;

Let all the ends thou aimest at be thy coun

try's,

Thy God's and truth's; then if thou fallest,
O Cromwell,

Thou fallest a blessed martyr. Serve the
king;

And- Prythee, lead me in;

There take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe
And my integrity to Heaven is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell,
Cromwell,

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.
CROM. Good sir, have patience.
WOL.
So I have. Farewell
The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do
dwell.

Lodged in the abbey, where the reverend abbot,

With all his convent, honorably received him;

To whom he gave these words: "O father
abbot,

An old man broken with the storms of state
Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;

Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick, led be- Give him a little earth for charity!"
tween GRIFFITH and PATIENCE.

GRIF. How does Your Grace?
KATH.

Oh, Griffith, sick to death; My legs like loaden branches bow to the earth,

Willing to leave their burden. Reach a

chair.

So! Now, methinks, I feel a little ease.
Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou leddest

me,

That the great child of honor, Cardinal Wolsey,

Was dead?

GRIF. Yes, madam, but I think Your
Grace,

So went to bed, where eagerly his sickness
Pursued him still; and three nights after
this,

About the hour of eight (which he himself
Foretold should be his last), full of repent-

ance,

Continual meditations, tears and sorrows,
He gave
his honors to the world again,
His blessed part to heaven, and slept in
peace.

KATH. So may he rest; his faults lie
gently on him!

Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,

And yet with charity. He was a man Out of the pain you suffered, gave no ear Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking to't.

KATH. Prythee, good Griffith, tell me

how he died :

If well, he stepped before me, happily,

For my example.

GRIF. Well, the voice goes, madam; For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward

Himself with princes-one that by sugges

tion

Tyed all the kingdom; simony was fair play,
His own opinion was his law; i' the presence
He would say untruths, and be ever double
Both in his words and meaning. He was

never,

But where he meant to ruin, pitiful;

His promises were, as he then was, mighty,

But his performance, as he is now, nothing,
Of his own body he was ill, and gave
The clergy ill example.

GRIF.

Noble madam,

Men's evil manners live in brass; their vir-
tues

We write in water. May it please Your
Highness

To hear me speak his good now?

KATH.

I were malicious else.

Whom I most hated living thou hast made

me,

With thy religious truth and modesty,
Now in his ashes honor. Peace be with
him!

Patience; be near me still, and set me
lower:

I have not long to trouble thee. Good
Griffith,

Yes, good Griffith; Cause the musicians play me that sad note
I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating
On that celestial harmony I go to.

This cardinal,

GRIF.
Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashioned to much honor from his cradle.
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one,
Exceeding wise, fair spoken and persuading;
Lofty and sour to them that loved him not,
But to those men that sought him sweet as

summer.

And, though he were unsatisfied in getting
(Which was a sin), yet in bestowing, madam,
He was most princely. Ever witness for him
Those twins of learning that he raised in you,
Ipswich and Oxford, one of which fell with
him,

Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
The other, though unfinished, yet so famous,
So excellent in art and still so rising,
That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
His overthrow heaped happiness upon him,
For then, and not till then, he felt himself
And found the blessedness of being little;
And, to add greater honors to his age
Than man could give him, he died fearing
God.

SHAKESPEARE.

WHICH IS THE WIND?

WHICH is the wind that brings the

The north wind, Freddy, and all the

snow;

And the sheep will scamper into the fold

When the north begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the heat? The south-wind, Katy; and corn will grow,

And peaches redden for you to eat,

When the south begins to blow.

Which is the wind that brings the rain?

The east wind, Arty; and farmers know That cows come shivering up the lane When the east begins to blow.

KATH. After my death I wish no other Which is the wind that brings the flowers?

herald,

No other speaker of my living actions,
To keep mine honor from corruption,

But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.

The west wind, Bessy; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours

When the west begins to blow.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

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The Classic and the Beautiful from the Literature of Three ..., Volume 4