(Enter Cromwell.)

Why, how now, Cromwell?

Crom. I have no power to speak, sir.

What! amazed

Wol.
At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder

A great man should decline?
I am fallen indeed.

Crom.

Wol.

Nay, an you weep,

How does your grace?

Why, well;

Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.

I know myself now, and I feel within 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 honour;
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
Wol. What news abroad?
Crom.

[of it.

The heaviest and the worst

Is your displeasure with the king.

Wol.

God bless him!

Crom. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen

Lord Chancellor in your place.

Wol.

But he's a learned man.

That's somewhat sudden ;

May he continue

Long in his highness' favour, and do justice

For truth's sake and his conscience, that his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphan's tears wept on them!
What more?

Crom. That Cranmer is returned with welcome,

Installed Lord Archbishop of Canterbury.

Wol. That's news indeed!

Crom.

Last, that the Lady Anne,

Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,

This day was viewed in public as his

queen.

Wol. There was the weight that pulled me down, O

By that one woman I am lost for ever.

No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,

Or gild again the noble troops that waited

[Cromwell.

Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;

I am a poor, fallen man, unworthy now

To be thy lord and master.

Crom.

Oh, my lord,

Must I then leave you? Must I needs forego
So good, so noble, and so true a master?

Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord!
The king shall have my service, but my prayers
For ever and for ever shall be yours.

Wol. 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;
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.

Now 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.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. A.D. 1587.

I LOOKED far back into other years, and lo! in bright array, I saw, as in a dream, the forms of ages passed away.

It was a stately convent, with its old and lofty walls, And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footstep falls;

And o'er the antique dial-stones the creeping shadow passed, And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast. No sound of busy life was heard, save, from the cloister dim, The tinkling of the silver bell, or the sisters' holy hymn; And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees, In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;

And little recked they, when they sang, or knelt at vesper prayers,

That Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than theirs

And little even the loveliest thought, before the holy shrine, Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line:

Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight, And, as they flew, they left behind a long-continuing light.

The scene was changed. It was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,

And 'neath a thousand silver lamps, a thousand courtiers throng;

And proudly kindles Henry's eye-well pleased, I ween, to

see

The land assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry :— But fairer far than all the rest who bask on fortune's

tide,

Effulgent in the light of youth, is she, the new-made bride! The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond, deep love of

one,

The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun,

They lighten up her chestnut eye, they mantle o'er her cheek,

They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy be

speak:

Ah who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant hours,

She thought of that quiet convent's calm, its sunshine and its flowers?

The scene was changed. It was a bark that slowly held

its way,

And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening

lay,

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes
Upon the fast receding hills, that dim and distant rise.
No marvel that the lady wept,-there was no land on earth
She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not
her birth;

It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends,

It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends,

The land where her dead husband slept—the land where she had known

The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendours of a throne:

No marvel that the lady wept,—it was the land of France—
The chosen home of chivalry-the garden of romance!
The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her

bark;

The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark! One gaze again-one long, last gaze-" Adieu, fair France, to thee!"

The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea!

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood,

And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain, and sighing with the winds, That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her cheek-her smile was

sadder now,

The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;