« ÎnapoiContinuă »
My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant;
To fertile vales, and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring steps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow,
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O LORD! art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my pains beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.
LAMENTATION OF HIS FALL.
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 honours 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 rip'ning, nips his root:
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur❜d,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These 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 misery
Of a rude stream, which must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
There is, betwixt that smile which we aspire to,
That sweet regard of princes and our ruin,
pangs and fears than war and women know;
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
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;
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin’d me,
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then, I taught thee
Say, Wolsey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of this wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Cromwell, I charge thee, throw away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then
(The image of his Maker) hope to win by it?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait 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. 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 now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my GOD with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, He would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
BUT all our praises why should lords engross?
Rise, honest muse! and sing the Man of Ross:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow?
From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?
Nor to the skies in useless columns tost,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,
But clear and artless pouring through the plain
Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows!
Whose seats the weary traveller repose?
Who feeds yon alms-house, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate? Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise? The Man of Ross, each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread: Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the med’cine takes and gives. Is there a variance? Enter but his door, Balk'd are the courts, and contest is no more. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race. "Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue "What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do. "O say, what sums that gen'rous hand supply? "What mines to swell that boundless charity?" Of debts and taxes, wife or children clear, This man possess'd-five hundred pounds a year, Blush, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze:
Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.
"And what! No monument, inscription, stone? "His race, his form, his name almost unknown ?" Who builds a church to GOD, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.