All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call ; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;

The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning, I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear, I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd,

And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me-I know not what was said;

For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,

And up the valley came again the music on the wind..

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them : it's mine."

And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.

And once again it came, and close beside the window

bars,

Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.

So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know
The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go.
And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet.

If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife,

But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a

glow;

He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I

know.

And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine

Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done

The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the

sun

For ever and for ever with those just souls and true— And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie

come

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your

breast

Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary

are at rest.

TENNYSON.

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SOLILOQUY
ON 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 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 the 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 for ever 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' 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.