As if his whole vocation
Were endless imitation.

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie
Thy soul's immensity:

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep
Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind.
That, deaf and silent, readst the eternal deep
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, -
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest

On whom those truths do rest,

Which we are toiling all our lives to find;
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave;
Thou, over whom thy immortality
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,
A presence which is not to be put by ;

Thou little child, yet glorious in the might
Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height,
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke
The years to bring the inevitable yoke,

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife?
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!

O joy, that in our embers

Is something that doth live,
That Nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed

Perpetual benedictions, not indeed.

For that which is most worthy to be blest―

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast; Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings;

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
But for those first affections,

Those shadowy recollections,

Which, be they what they may,

Are yet the fountain light of all our day,
Are yet a master light of all our seeing,

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make
Our noisy years seem moments in the being
Of the eternal silence; truths that wake,
To perish never;

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor,
Nor man, nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither;

Can in a moment travel thither,

And see the children sport upon the shore,

And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.

Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song!
And let the young lambs bound

As to the tabor's sound!

We in thought will join your throng,

Ye that pipe and ye that play,

Ye that through your hearts to-day
Feel the gladness of the May!

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now forever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy

Which having been, must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;

In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves.
Forebode not any severing of our loves!
Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might;

I only have relinquished one delight,

To live beneath your more habitual sway.

I love the brooks, which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day

Is lovely yet;

The clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober coloring from an eye

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality!

Another race hath been, and other palms are won.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

WOLSEY'S FAREWELL TO CROMWELL

From "King Henry VIII"

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

NOTE TO THE PUPIL.. - It is a singular fact that almost nothing is known of the early life, and not much of any part of the life, of the greatest dramatist who has written in the English language, and probably the greatest dramatist who ever lived. We do not even know the exact date of his birth. It is certain that he was born at Stratford-on-Avon, and probably in 1564. His schooling was probably very limited. It is said that neither his father nor mother were able to write. He married Anne Hathaway in his nineteenth year. He went to London and became acquainted with Ben Jonson. It is not altogether certain just what plays he wrote, and there is no certainty whatever as to their order. There is doubt in regard to the authorship of some of the plays attributed to him. Among the many plays that he wrote the following are considered the best: Tragedies Macbeth," "Hamlet," "King Lear"; Histories - -"Julius Cæsar," "Richard III," "Henry VIII"; Comedies - "Merchant of Venice," Merry Wives of Windsor," " Midsummer Night's Dream." He died in 1616.

66

66

ROMWELL, I did not think to shed a tear

CROB

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 honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wrack, 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 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 mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal
I serv'd my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

THE SEVEN AGES OF MAN

From "As You Like It"

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

LL the world's

AL

a stage,

And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,