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And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sulienly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!

WOLFK

ABSALOM'S DREAM.

METHOUGHT I stood again, at dead of night,
In that rich sepulcher, viewing, alone,

The wonders of the place. My wondering eyes
Rested upon the costly sarcophage

Reared in the midst. I saw therein a form
Like David: not as he appears, but young
And ruddy. In his lovely tinctured cheek,
The vermil blood looked pure and fresh as life
In gentle slumber. On his blooming brow
Was bound the diadem. But while I gazed,
The phantasm vanished, and my father lay there,
As he is now, his head and beard in silver,
Sealed with the pale fixed impress of the tomb,
I knelt and wept. But, when I thought to kiss
My tears from off his reverend cheek, a voice
Cried, "Impious! hold!"-and suddenly there stood
A dreadful and refulgent form before me,
Bearing the Tables of the Law.

It spake not, moved not, but still sternly pointed
To one command, which shone so fiercely bright,
It seared mine eyeballs. Presently I seemed
Transported to the desolate wild shore
Of Asphaltites, night, and storm, and fire,
Astounding me with horror. All alone

I wandered; but where'er I turned my eyes,

On the bleak rocks, or pitchy clouds, or closed them, Flamed that command.

Then suddenly I sunk down, down, methought,

Ten thousand cubits, to a wide

And traveled way, walled to the firmament

On either side, and filled with hurrying nations;
Hurrying, or hurried by some spell,

Toward a portentous adamantine gate,
Towering before us to the empyrean.
Beside it Abraham sat, in reverend years
And gracious majesty, snatching his seed
From its devouring jaws. When I approached,

He groaned forth, "Parricide!" and stretched no aid
To me alone, of all his children.

Then,

What flames, what howling fiery billows caught me,
Like the red ocean of consuming cities,

And shapes most horrid; all, methought, in crowns
Scorching as molten brass, and every eye
Bloodshot with agony, yet none had power
To tear them off. With frantic yells of joy,
They crowned me too, and with the pang,

I woke.

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HILLHOUSE

THE DOWNFALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.

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. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man, that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect 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!-

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, Cromwell; when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

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And,
And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention
Of me more must be heard of, — say, I taught thee, -
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor, -
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
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 thee;
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.

SHAKSPEARE

THE MURDERED TRAVELER.

WHEN spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveler's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead;
And fearless, near the fatal spot,

Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away;
And gentle eyes, for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Grew sorrowful and dim.

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Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

So long they looked - but never spied

His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.

THE LEPER.

"ROOм for the leper! room!" And as he came,

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Room for the leper! room

And aside they stood,

Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood — all
Who met him on his way and let him pass.
And onward through the open gate he came,
A leper with the ashes on his brow,
Sackcloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow,
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean!- unclean!"

Day was breaking

When at the altar of the temple stood

ERY ANT

The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp
Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled through the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there, alone,
Wasted to ghastly thinness, Helon knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain
Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,
Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head
Unto the sprinkled ashes, and put off

His costly raiment for the leper's garb,
And with the sackcloth round him, and his lip
Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still,
Waiting to hear his doom:

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God,
For he has smote thee with his chastening rod,
And to the desert wild

From all thou lov'st away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague his people may be free.

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Depart! and come not near
The busy mart, the crowded city, more;
Nor set thy foot a human threshold o'er.
And stay thou not to hear

Voices that call thee in the way; and fly
From all who in the wilderness pass by.

"Wet not thy burning lip

In streams that to a human dwelling glide;
Nor rest thee where the covert fountains hide,
Nor kneel thee down to dip

The water where the pilgrim bends to drink,
By desert well, or river's grassy brink.

"And pass not thou between

The weary traveler and the cooling breeze,
And lie not down to sleep beneath the trees
Where human tracks are seen;

Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain,
Nor pluck the standing corn, or yellow grain.

"And now depart! and when

Thy heart is heavy, and thine eyes are dim,
Lift up thy prayer beseechingly to Him,

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