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THE CUCKOO.

Hall, beauteous stranger of the wood,

Attendant on the spring !
Now Heaven repairs thy vernal seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.

Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year ?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers, When heaven is fill’d with music sweet,

Of birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering in the wood

To pull the flowers so gay, Starts—thy curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,

Another spring to hail.

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

15

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear,
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year!

O! could I fly, I'd fly with thee;

We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,

Companions of the spring.

LOGAN.

WOLSEY'S ADVICE TO CROMWELL.

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 miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that that ruin’d 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't ?

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 fallst, O Cromwell,
Thou fall’st a blessed martyr!

SHAKSPEARE.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

BOUND upon the accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He ?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb;
By the flesh with scourges torn;
By the crown of twisted thorn ;
By the side so deeply pierced ;
By the baffled, burning thirst ;
By the drooping, death-dew'd brow:
Son of man ! 'tis Thou !—'tis Thou !

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?
By the sun at noonday pale,
Shivering rocks and rending veil ;
By earth, that trembles at His doom;
By yonder saints, who burst their tomb;

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Bound upon the accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He ?
By the last and bitter cry;
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body, laid
In the chamber of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! We know Thee now:
Son of man ! 'tis Thou !—'tis Thou !

Bound upon the accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He ?
By the prayer for them that slew,
“Lord, they know not what they do!"
By the spoild and empty grave;
By the souls he died to save ;
By the conquest he hath won ;
By the saints before his throne;
By the rainbow round his brow :
Son of God ! 'tis Thou !—'tis Thou!

MILHAN. EVE'S LAMENT ON HER EXPULSION FROM

PARADISE.

O UNEXPECTED stroke, worse than of death!
Must I thus leave thee, Paradise —thus leave
Thee, native soil ! these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods? where I had hope to spend,
Quiet though sad, the respite of that day
That must be mortal to us both. O flowers,
That never will in other climate grow,
My early visitation, and my last
At eve, which I bred up with tender hand,
From the first op'ning bud, and gave ye names !
Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank
Your tribes, and water from the ambrosial fount ?
Thee lastly, nuptial bower ! by me adorn'd
With what to sight or smell was sweet ! from thee
How shall I part, and whither wander down
Into a lower world, to this obscure
And wild ? how shall we breathe in other air
Less pure, accustom'd to immortal fruits ?

MILTON.

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