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CARDINAL WOLSEY.
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.
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.
—Cardinal Wolsey's Speech.
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.
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.
—Cardinal Wolsey's Speech.
------ Nay, then, farewell!
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
—Shakspeare.—Henry VIII.
I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
And from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
—Shakspeare.—Henry VIII.
What is ambition? 'Tis to stretch the hand
And catch a star, and span the rainbow's rim.
What is ambition? 'Tis to hold command
O'er hopes impalpable and shadows dim;
To bind the wings of flying seraphim!
It is the schoolboy's strife, the warrior's game;
This makes the soldier lose his life or limb;
This lifts the rebel to a lofty aim;
This makes the hero burn with patriotic flame.
And catch a star, and span the rainbow's rim.
What is ambition? 'Tis to hold command
O'er hopes impalpable and shadows dim;
To bind the wings of flying seraphim!
It is the schoolboy's strife, the warrior's game;
This makes the soldier lose his life or limb;
This lifts the rebel to a lofty aim;
This makes the hero burn with patriotic flame.
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Ambition is a meteor in the sky;
A bubble floating on an idle stream;
A cloud—an ignus fatuus that doth fly
In sluggish fens; the phantom of a dream;
A mountain mist; a vain and senseless theme.
Yet like the bursting rocket, it is bright,
And scatters stars of lightning, and doth gleam
Intensely in the midnight. 'Tis a light
One moment seen, then vanish'd into night.
A bubble floating on an idle stream;
A cloud—an ignus fatuus that doth fly
In sluggish fens; the phantom of a dream;
A mountain mist; a vain and senseless theme.
Yet like the bursting rocket, it is bright,
And scatters stars of lightning, and doth gleam
Intensely in the midnight. 'Tis a light
One moment seen, then vanish'd into night.
Is it not so, ye great and mighty dead?
Cæsar and Alexander, is't not so?
Can ye not tell from out your charnel-bed,
That it is nought but hate, and fear, and woe—
That when attain'd, it was your strongest foe!
Its prey is fallen empires, and the blood
Of scatter'd armies; and too well ye know
That rapine, famine, slaughter, are its brood;
That like a fiend from hell, it fills each solitude.
Cæsar and Alexander, is't not so?
Can ye not tell from out your charnel-bed,
That it is nought but hate, and fear, and woe—
That when attain'd, it was your strongest foe!
Its prey is fallen empires, and the blood
Of scatter'd armies; and too well ye know
That rapine, famine, slaughter, are its brood;
That like a fiend from hell, it fills each solitude.
It dwells in ruin'd cities, by the throne
Of murder'd kings. The dim and drooping eye
Confess its sway; and Eden heard it groan
Among the groves, and fields, and bowers, on high.
It drove the fallen angels from the sky.
And, oh, what meets it, that the purple pall,
The robe of state, the sceptre, and the crown,
The marble pillar, and the tap'stried hall
Attend it—it is rotten, foul, and hollow all!
Of murder'd kings. The dim and drooping eye
Confess its sway; and Eden heard it groan
Among the groves, and fields, and bowers, on high.
It drove the fallen angels from the sky.
And, oh, what meets it, that the purple pall,
The robe of state, the sceptre, and the crown,
The marble pillar, and the tap'stried hall
Attend it—it is rotten, foul, and hollow all!
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Say, doth the inspired bard need ought beside
Than fame's sweet line, and praise from ladies' eyes?
He will not with a king his lauds divide;
Nor struggle with the victor for his prize:
His wealth is drawn from the empurpled skies;
The stars are his; his heaven's serene domain;
Nature for him tunes all her minstrelsies,
And gives him all her treasures for his gain;
Earth, air, and fire are his, and the rich-peopled main.
Than fame's sweet line, and praise from ladies' eyes?
He will not with a king his lauds divide;
Nor struggle with the victor for his prize:
His wealth is drawn from the empurpled skies;
The stars are his; his heaven's serene domain;
Nature for him tunes all her minstrelsies,
And gives him all her treasures for his gain;
Earth, air, and fire are his, and the rich-peopled main.
What, though the fever'd eye, and burning brain,
The wilder'd dream, and passion's constant fire;—
What, though he's circled round with hate and pain,
That twine, like serpents, round his struggling lyre;—
What, though his life is but a funeral pyre,
On which he sits and feels the smouldering flame;—
Is he not born of an immortal sire,
Who doth bequeath the heritage of fame—
Things richer than gold—hope and a glorious name?
The wilder'd dream, and passion's constant fire;—
What, though he's circled round with hate and pain,
That twine, like serpents, round his struggling lyre;—
What, though his life is but a funeral pyre,
On which he sits and feels the smouldering flame;—
Is he not born of an immortal sire,
Who doth bequeath the heritage of fame—
Things richer than gold—hope and a glorious name?
Are not the flowers that in strange forests grow;
Gems on the ocean sands; the mountain height;
The fire of evening; the swift river's flow,
By castled walls; the splendours of the night;
Thunder and tempest, and the ocean's might,—
The poet's? Bow not all things to his power?
His soul shall it not soar in realms of light;
And, like a palace, in the sunlight tower,
And o'er the world hold sway, its treasures for his dower?
Gems on the ocean sands; the mountain height;
The fire of evening; the swift river's flow,
By castled walls; the splendours of the night;
Thunder and tempest, and the ocean's might,—
The poet's? Bow not all things to his power?
His soul shall it not soar in realms of light;
And, like a palace, in the sunlight tower,
And o'er the world hold sway, its treasures for his dower?
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His pen is dipp'd in sunbeams of all hues,
As numerous as the rainbow. He can go,
Even like a prophet, onward, and diffuse
The light of eloquence o'er every woe.
Within his spirit is a constant glow
Of hope and passion; 'round his hallow'd head
Streams of effulgent lustre ever flow;
And, when he resteth on his midnight-bed,
Visions and glorious dreams are with his slumbers wed!
As numerous as the rainbow. He can go,
Even like a prophet, onward, and diffuse
The light of eloquence o'er every woe.
Within his spirit is a constant glow
Of hope and passion; 'round his hallow'd head
Streams of effulgent lustre ever flow;
And, when he resteth on his midnight-bed,
Visions and glorious dreams are with his slumbers wed!
Age cannot touch his forehead! He is young
Amid grey hairs; through all his life a child.
Pure and benevolent, his praise is sung
By fame; he is by all high things beguil'd.
Even, like a desert pard, his soul is wild;
Open to every impulse; glad and free;
He hath most light where he the least hath toil'd;
Gathering his hymns from truth and liberty,
Mingling with mountain heights, and with the tempest's glee.
Amid grey hairs; through all his life a child.
Pure and benevolent, his praise is sung
By fame; he is by all high things beguil'd.
Even, like a desert pard, his soul is wild;
Open to every impulse; glad and free;
He hath most light where he the least hath toil'd;
Gathering his hymns from truth and liberty,
Mingling with mountain heights, and with the tempest's glee.
For, in lone woods and lovely bowers, he is
Hearing the ring-doves' murmur'd minstrelsies
At evening, in the depth of perfect bliss;
Or he will watch the eagle in the skies;
Or the strong red deer o'er the mountains rise,
Tossing his hairy horns in joy and pride;
Or, with a soul considerate and wise,
Gaze on the lonely stars; or, upward glide
Among the lovely shapes that on the moonbeams ride.
Hearing the ring-doves' murmur'd minstrelsies
At evening, in the depth of perfect bliss;
Or he will watch the eagle in the skies;
Or the strong red deer o'er the mountains rise,
Tossing his hairy horns in joy and pride;
Or, with a soul considerate and wise,
Gaze on the lonely stars; or, upward glide
Among the lovely shapes that on the moonbeams ride.
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O, call not this ambition! 'Tis the love
Of all things beautiful, and just, and fair!
As streamlets from their mountain-grottoes rove,
From crystal caves, and caverns rich and rare,
So, from the poet's soul, the stream runs clear
Because the source is pure. He can't withhold
The impulse; the full force he cannot bear:
This gave the mighty hymns and songs of old;
This made the earlier bards to be so strong and bold.
Of all things beautiful, and just, and fair!
As streamlets from their mountain-grottoes rove,
From crystal caves, and caverns rich and rare,
So, from the poet's soul, the stream runs clear
Because the source is pure. He can't withhold
The impulse; the full force he cannot bear:
This gave the mighty hymns and songs of old;
This made the earlier bards to be so strong and bold.
Well had it been for Wolsey, had he ne'er
Forsook the simple path: well had it been
If he had chosen what was good and fair;
And left each stormy and tempestuous scene
Of mad ambition. He had ne'er, I ween,
Been scoff'd at by his king. The fever'd brow,
The eager vigils, and the searchings keen;
The toil, the labour, and the strife to know,
Had ne'er been his—such things do from ambition flow.
Forsook the simple path: well had it been
If he had chosen what was good and fair;
And left each stormy and tempestuous scene
Of mad ambition. He had ne'er, I ween,
Been scoff'd at by his king. The fever'd brow,
The eager vigils, and the searchings keen;
The toil, the labour, and the strife to know,
Had ne'er been his—such things do from ambition flow.
The ambitious man must watch whilst others sleep;
His soul is a volcano, and burns aye
With burning fire that, from the abysm deep,
Breaks out, and casts to heaven its lurid ray!
Or, like the sea, it owns the tempests' sway,
And writhes, and heaves, and wrestles with the storm,
And, in the sweat of pain, throws out its spray.
Ambition seems a huge and giant form,
Struggling with some vast snake that doth around it worm.
His soul is a volcano, and burns aye
With burning fire that, from the abysm deep,
Breaks out, and casts to heaven its lurid ray!
Or, like the sea, it owns the tempests' sway,
And writhes, and heaves, and wrestles with the storm,
And, in the sweat of pain, throws out its spray.
Ambition seems a huge and giant form,
Struggling with some vast snake that doth around it worm.
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The ambitious man winds tortuously along,
And fears the open sunlight. He doth go
'Mid things of guile, and sublety, and wrong;
And, like a thief, deems every man his foe:
His paths are compass'd round with fear and woe.
A child's a king to him, for childhood's free;
A naked savage doth more wisely know
The pulses of his own proud heart, than he:
He hath no house, nor home, nor love, nor liberty!
And fears the open sunlight. He doth go
'Mid things of guile, and sublety, and wrong;
And, like a thief, deems every man his foe:
His paths are compass'd round with fear and woe.
A child's a king to him, for childhood's free;
A naked savage doth more wisely know
The pulses of his own proud heart, than he:
He hath no house, nor home, nor love, nor liberty!
And, when he hath attain'd the mountain height;
And topp'd the avalanche, and walk'd afar
The king of men; and made him strong and bright,
High, stedfast, fair, and radiant as a star—
Still he's the slave of his own bosom's jar;
A thing deform'd, a pigmy after all!
Through pools of blood trails his triumphant car,
And ghosts and fleshless phantoms round him call,
And skeletons do rattle in his marble hall!
And topp'd the avalanche, and walk'd afar
The king of men; and made him strong and bright,
High, stedfast, fair, and radiant as a star—
Still he's the slave of his own bosom's jar;
A thing deform'd, a pigmy after all!
Through pools of blood trails his triumphant car,
And ghosts and fleshless phantoms round him call,
And skeletons do rattle in his marble hall!
Better for thee, proud Wolsey, had thy youth
Pass'd like a shepherd boy's! Better for thee,
If on the desert moors, in robe uncouth,
Herding the silly sheep, and wandering free
'Mid craggy hills, it had been thine to be!
Music had linger'd in thy morning dream,
Thy footsteps had been wing'd with liberty;
Winds, woods, and streams had been thy chosen theme,
And o'er thy closed eyes, shed many a glorious gleam.
Pass'd like a shepherd boy's! Better for thee,
If on the desert moors, in robe uncouth,
Herding the silly sheep, and wandering free
'Mid craggy hills, it had been thine to be!
Music had linger'd in thy morning dream,
Thy footsteps had been wing'd with liberty;
Winds, woods, and streams had been thy chosen theme,
And o'er thy closed eyes, shed many a glorious gleam.
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The heath-bells would have shap'd a couch for thee,
Of beauty and of fragrance—soft and fair
As beds of down. The hill-bee, wandering free,
Had sent the music dim, and deep, and clear;
Richer than choral trumpets. Through thy hair
The sweet south winds had flutter'd: thou could'st view
The kingly wild-deer in his dewy lair;
The eagle ting'd with evening's fading hue;
And night with all its stars—and visions ever new!
Of beauty and of fragrance—soft and fair
As beds of down. The hill-bee, wandering free,
Had sent the music dim, and deep, and clear;
Richer than choral trumpets. Through thy hair
The sweet south winds had flutter'd: thou could'st view
The kingly wild-deer in his dewy lair;
The eagle ting'd with evening's fading hue;
And night with all its stars—and visions ever new!
But as it was—the monarch of thy king—
The enslaver of the nations, and the chain
Around religion's feet!—who, who shall sing
Thy honours? Who uplift the chosen strain?
Who shall essay, a tyrant's—despot's reign?
“Woe, woe to the enslaver!” shall be heard,
“Woe, woe,” in sounds as of the angry main!
And earth shall hear the loud appalling word,
And toss it back in menace, like a thing abhorr'd!
The enslaver of the nations, and the chain
Around religion's feet!—who, who shall sing
Thy honours? Who uplift the chosen strain?
Who shall essay, a tyrant's—despot's reign?
“Woe, woe to the enslaver!” shall be heard,
“Woe, woe,” in sounds as of the angry main!
And earth shall hear the loud appalling word,
And toss it back in menace, like a thing abhorr'd!
“He came,” the voice shall say, “with mighty power
“Of good and right, he turn'd it into wrong.
“He stood upon the earth as doth a tower,
“The shades and glooms of darkest night among;
“No beauty stream'd the solitudes along!
“He came, a mighty shape, with mighty sway,
“Rob'd in religion's sanctity, and strong;
“From prayer, and crucifixion, and the ray
“Of truth, he spurn'd them all, and scatter'd them away.”
“Of good and right, he turn'd it into wrong.
“He stood upon the earth as doth a tower,
“The shades and glooms of darkest night among;
“No beauty stream'd the solitudes along!
“He came, a mighty shape, with mighty sway,
“Rob'd in religion's sanctity, and strong;
“From prayer, and crucifixion, and the ray
“Of truth, he spurn'd them all, and scatter'd them away.”
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The blood of martyrdom had fallen in vain;
The agony of prayer had swell'd for nought;
Idly had heav'd the bursting heart and brain;
In vain were miracles sublimely wrought;
In vain of old, the true religion sought!
The pangs of Christ were mock'd to scorn; for now
Wolsey walk'd forth, and at his footstool brought
Great crowds of worshippers, and on his brow
Bore shining gold, and dwelt in marble halls, I trow!
The agony of prayer had swell'd for nought;
Idly had heav'd the bursting heart and brain;
In vain were miracles sublimely wrought;
In vain of old, the true religion sought!
The pangs of Christ were mock'd to scorn; for now
Wolsey walk'd forth, and at his footstool brought
Great crowds of worshippers, and on his brow
Bore shining gold, and dwelt in marble halls, I trow!
He did not rule his king, when rule he might;
He did not teach the people, when the rod
Was in his hand; and therefore it was right
That that same king should hold him at his nod—
The king he worshipp'd rather than his God!
And that the people should behold his woes
With exultation—and his neck be trod
Beneath their feet; and all men be his foes;
And his proud spirit bend beneath repentant throes!
He did not teach the people, when the rod
Was in his hand; and therefore it was right
That that same king should hold him at his nod—
The king he worshipp'd rather than his God!
And that the people should behold his woes
With exultation—and his neck be trod
Beneath their feet; and all men be his foes;
And his proud spirit bend beneath repentant throes!
There is a mighty truth in history,
That they who highest climb, shall fall most low.
The ghost of Alexander, from on high,
Shrieks of the poison cup:—and Cæsar's brow
Is moist with bitter sorrow! Frow the prow
Of Cleopatra's bark, shouts Antony!
And great Napoleon on his rock doth bow
Like a chain'd eagle in its agony,
And o'er the ocean waves doth like a madman cry!
That they who highest climb, shall fall most low.
The ghost of Alexander, from on high,
Shrieks of the poison cup:—and Cæsar's brow
Is moist with bitter sorrow! Frow the prow
Of Cleopatra's bark, shouts Antony!
And great Napoleon on his rock doth bow
Like a chain'd eagle in its agony,
And o'er the ocean waves doth like a madman cry!
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And Wolsey's purple robes are cast aside;
The crosier is all batter'd in the mire:
And he who sat in majesty and pride,
Doth like a banish'd slave at length expire!
O, thanks for ever, to the lofty lyre,
That hath the past and future in its chord!
There is a moral in its fadeless fire;
And inspiration tells in every word
Of eloquence far more than ear hath ever heard!
The crosier is all batter'd in the mire:
And he who sat in majesty and pride,
Doth like a banish'd slave at length expire!
O, thanks for ever, to the lofty lyre,
That hath the past and future in its chord!
There is a moral in its fadeless fire;
And inspiration tells in every word
Of eloquence far more than ear hath ever heard!
Thanks to the spell that bears the soul afar
Into the past, and opes the gates of time;
Shining o'er death itself, a heavenly star!
There yet are notes seraphic and sublime;
Still hath the earth loud hymnings for its prime.
A music murmurs from Dodona's grove,
Fraught with response of oracles, and dim
With dreams prophetic. Lambent glories move
As in the ancient worlds, of hope, and joy, and love.
Into the past, and opes the gates of time;
Shining o'er death itself, a heavenly star!
There yet are notes seraphic and sublime;
Still hath the earth loud hymnings for its prime.
A music murmurs from Dodona's grove,
Fraught with response of oracles, and dim
With dreams prophetic. Lambent glories move
As in the ancient worlds, of hope, and joy, and love.
The lyre!—the lyre!—sing ye aloud its praise!
It shook the ancient heavens' with conquering song,
And mingled with the sun's descending rays:
It wander'd the old fields and groves among,
And like a mighty river revell'd strong!
Great Homer bore it sceptred in his hand;
With burning Sappho it career'd along;
Pure Virgil caught the spell, and held command;
And mighty Shakspeare shook its fires o'er every land!
It shook the ancient heavens' with conquering song,
And mingled with the sun's descending rays:
It wander'd the old fields and groves among,
And like a mighty river revell'd strong!
Great Homer bore it sceptred in his hand;
With burning Sappho it career'd along;
Pure Virgil caught the spell, and held command;
And mighty Shakspeare shook its fires o'er every land!
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The hearts of monarchs bend beneath its sway:
It dwells o'er human secrets, and can view
The inmost struggles that are hid from day.
It lendeth to the soul another hue
Of fancy, and of hope, that can imbue
With dreams immortal, mortal ecstacy.
All things from this, receive an impulse new—
And, walks it not upon the circling sky,
Mingling with moons and stars, time and eternity?
It dwells o'er human secrets, and can view
The inmost struggles that are hid from day.
It lendeth to the soul another hue
Of fancy, and of hope, that can imbue
With dreams immortal, mortal ecstacy.
All things from this, receive an impulse new—
And, walks it not upon the circling sky,
Mingling with moons and stars, time and eternity?
Stern are its admonitions and severe!
Then, Brougham, sitting on thy place of state,
This truth the lyre shall thunder in thy ear:—
“Beware, lest thou be tumbled from thy height,
“Beware—Beware—the avenger lies in wait!
“Outrage and wrong have aye attended thee;
“And wild ambition girds thee round with hate;
“Beware, beware, of Wolsey's misery;
“Lest Phaeton's, Ixion's doom, thy dreadful doom shall be.”
Then, Brougham, sitting on thy place of state,
This truth the lyre shall thunder in thy ear:—
“Beware, lest thou be tumbled from thy height,
“Beware—Beware—the avenger lies in wait!
“Outrage and wrong have aye attended thee;
“And wild ambition girds thee round with hate;
“Beware, beware, of Wolsey's misery;
“Lest Phaeton's, Ixion's doom, thy dreadful doom shall be.”
No more!—We will not stay with such as he,
Wolsey is dead, his restless pulse is still;
With worms, and clods, and stones, he bows his head.
He hath no vassals now to list his will;
He cannot now of flattery take fill.
He rolls about with every circling year,
With stars and meteors—forest, grove, and hill.
Hate cannot touch him, nor the fang of fear,—
His skeleton is dust—he hath no dwelling here.
Wolsey is dead, his restless pulse is still;
With worms, and clods, and stones, he bows his head.
He hath no vassals now to list his will;
He cannot now of flattery take fill.
He rolls about with every circling year,
With stars and meteors—forest, grove, and hill.
Hate cannot touch him, nor the fang of fear,—
His skeleton is dust—he hath no dwelling here.
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