And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven

Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright. - Bryant.

THERE WAS A SOUND OF REVELRY

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamp shone o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet –

But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is - it is-the cannon's opening roar.

FROM OTHELLO

Good name in man or woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:

Who steals my purse steals trash;

'Tis something-nothing

"Twas mine

'tis his-and has been slave to thousands.

But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KING HENRY VIII

Nay, then farewell!

I've touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;

And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
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 i
There is, betwixt that smile he 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!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thine 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,
Say Wolsey that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of this 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 aimst 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; 'tis the King's; my robe

And my integrity to Heaven is all

I dare now call my 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! - Shakespeare.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do or die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battle-smoke,

Right through the line they broke:
Cossack and Russian

Reel'd from the saber stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd.

Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.

Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble six hundred! - Tennyson.

THANATOPSIS

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight