THE HOARY HEAD A CROWN OF GLORY.

WHILE We call old age the winter of our life, we must beware lest we derogate from the bounty of our Maker, and disparage those blessings which He accounts precious; amongst which old age is none of the meanest.

Had He not put that value upon it, would He have honoured it with His own style, calling Himself the "Ancient of days?" Would He have set out this mercy as a reward of obedience to Himself, “I will fulfil the number of thy days?" and of obedience to our parents, "To live long in the land?" Would He have promised it as a marvellous favour to restored Jerusalem, now become a city of Truth, that "there shall yet old men and old women dwell in the streets of Jerusalem, and every man with his staff in his hand for very age?" Would He else have denounced it as a judgment to over-indulgent Eli, "There shall not be an old man in thy house for ever?" Far be it from us to despise that which God doth honour; and to turn His blessing into a curse.

Yea, the same God who knows best the price of His own favours, as He makes no small estimation of age Himself, so He hath thought fit to call for a high respect to be given to it, out of a holy awe to Himself: "Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God: I am the Lord." Hence it is that He hath pleased to put together the "ancient" and the "honourable," and has told us that a "hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness;" and lastly, makes it an argument of the deplored estate of Jerusalem that " they favoured not the elders."

Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door;
The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more;

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife,
By the road-side fell and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,

Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly,

Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the Being Beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine,
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me

With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,

Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air.

WOLSEY'S FALL AND DEATH.

Oh, though oft depressed and lonely,

All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

WOLSEY'S FALL AND DEATH.

FAREWELL! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
This many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on prince's favours!
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspèct of princes, and their ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have;
And, when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.

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 missed it.
Mark but my fall and that that 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;
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-pr'ythee, 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 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!

At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,