THE VILLAGE PREACHER.

(From the Deserted Village.)

"Near yonder copse, (1) where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns he ran his godly race

Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to ehange his place; Unskilful he to fawn, (2) or seek for power,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying (3) hour; Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant (4) train,
He chid (5) their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long remember'd beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruin'd spendthrift, (6) now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.

(1) Copse-a small wood. (2) Fawn-to bend or cringe.

(3) Varying-changing.

(5) Chid-rebuked

money recklessly.

(4) Vagrant-wandering beggars.

(6) Spendthrift-one who has spent his

Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, (7)
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt, (8) at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all;
And as a bird each fond endearment (9) tries,

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
Allured 10 to brighter worlds, and led the way.

The King is come to marshall us, all in his armour drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He look'd upon his people, and a tear was in his eye:

He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.

Right graciously he smiled on us, as roll'd from wing to wing, Down all our line a defeaning shout," God save our Lord the

King!"

"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks

of war,

And be your oriflamme to-day, the helmet of Navarre."

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin!
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andreʼs plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those we love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the Golden Lilies,-upon them with the lance!
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand Knights are pressing close behind the snow-white

crest;

And in they burst, and on they rush'd, while, like a guiding star,

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned

his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay

gale.

The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, "Remember Saint Bartholomew!" was pass'd from man to

man:

But out spake gentle Henry," No Frenchman is my foe;

Down, down with every foreigner! but let your brethren go."

Oh! was there ever such a Knight, in friendship or in war, As our Sovereingn Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! Matrons of Lucerne ;

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall

return.

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,

That Antwerp Monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear

men's souls.

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright.

Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to

night.

For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,

And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the

brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! MACAULAY.

King Henry of Navarre was distinguished for his disinterested and gallant conduct.

It was in his time that the fearful massacre of Saint Bartholomew took place, when Protestants of every rank and age were cruelly put to death in Paris, Lyons, Orleans, Rouen and more or less throughout the whole of France. This happened in the reign of Charles the Ninth of France, and it is supposed that throughout the Kingdom of France, 25,000 Protestants perished at the infernal command of Charles, and other Roman Catholics.

This wicked King died a most dreadful death, blood oozing from the pores of his skin;—a just judgment for his horrible crimes; he was only 23 years of age when he expired.

The brave and generous Henry of Navarre, headed the Hugenots, and shortly afterwards became King of France, under the title of Henry 4th.

CARDINAL WOLSEY'S SPEECH 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,

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

Cromwell;

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard; say then I taught thee!
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals (1) 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't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not,
Let all the ends thou aimest at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truths; then if thou fallest, O Cromwell,
Thou fallest a blessed martyr. Serve the king;

And, pr'ythee, lead me in

There take an inventory (2) 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!

SHAKSPEARE.

(1) Shoals-hollows. I (2) Inventory-list.