Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
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 forc'd me,
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:
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,-
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 which 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 it?

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. Serve the king;

And,—Prithee, 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 serv'd my God with half the zeal
I served my king, HE would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

SHAKSPERE'S HENRY VIII.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.

TREAD Softly-bow the head

In reverent silence bow-
No passing-bell doth toll,
Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow ;

There's one in that poor shed-
One by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state;
Enter-no crowds attend-

Enter-no guards defend

This palace-gate.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,

Lifting with meagre hands,
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound

An infant wail alone;

A sob suppress'd-again

That short deep gasp-and then
The parting groan.

Oh! change-Oh! wondrous change!
Burst are the prison bars!

This moment there, so low,

So agonized and now

Beyond the stars!

Oh! change-stupendous change!

There lies the soul-less clod!

The sun eternal breaks

The new immortal wakes

Wakes with his God.

CAROLINE BOWLES.

THE QUARREL.

"HUSH, Joanna! 'tis quite certain
That the coffee was not strong;
Own your error, I'll forgive you,—
Why so stubborn in the wrong?

"You'll forgive me! Sir, I hate you! You have used me like a churl;

Have my senses ceased to guide me? Do you think I am a girl?"

"Oh, no! you're a girl no longer,
But a woman formed to please;
And it's time you should abandon
Childish follies such as these."

"Oh, I hate you! but why vex me?
If I'm old, you're older still;
I'll no longer be your victim,
And the creature of your will."

"But, Joanna, why this pother?
It might happen I was wrong!
But, if common sense inspire me-
Still, that coffee was not strong."

"Common sense! you never had it;

Oh, that ever I was born!

To be wedded to a monster

Who repays my love with scorn."

"Well Joanna, we'll not quarrel;
What's the use of bitter strife?

But I'm sorry I am married,—
I was mad to take a wife."

"Mad, indeed! I'm glad you know it; But, if law can break the chain, I'll be tied to you no longer

In this misery and pain."

'Hush, Joanna! shall the servants Hear you argue ever wrong?

Can you not have done with folly ?— Own the coffee was not strong."

"Oh! you goad me past endurance, Trifling with my woman's heart! But I loathe you, and detest you,— Villain! monster! let us part!

Long this foolish quarrel lasted,
Till Joanna half afraid
That her empire was in peril,

Summon'd never-failing aid;