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 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 FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness! Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! Never to hope again.— Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not : Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell And,-Prithee, lead me in: There, take an inventory of all I have ; To the last penny, 'tis the king's: my robe, I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell, SHAKSPERE'S HENRY VIII. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. TREAD softly-bow the head In reverent silence bow- Is passing now. Stranger! however great, With lowly reverence bow ; Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo! Death doth keep his state; Enter-no guards defend This palace-gate. |