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Now drops at once the pride of awful state,
The golden canopy, the glittering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies opprest,
He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remembered folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.

Speak thou whose thoughts at humble peace repine,
Shall Wolsey's wealth with Wolsey's end be thine ?
Or livest thou now, with safer pride content,
The wisest justice on the banks of Trent?
For why did Wolsey, near the steeps of fate,
On weak foundations raise the enormous weight ?
Why but to sink beneath misfortune's blow,
With louder ruin to the gulf below.

On what foundation stands the 'warrior's pride, How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide. A frame of adamant, a soul of fire, No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; O’er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain, Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain ; No joys to him pacific sceptres yield, War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold surrounding kings their power combine, And one capitulate, and one resign; Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain ; “ Think nothing gained,” he cries, “till naught remain, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky." The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern famine guards the solitary coast, And winter barricades the realms of frost; He comes-nor want, nor cold, his course delay; Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day: The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands :

Condemned a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance at length her error mend ?
Did no subverted empire mark his end ?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound ?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground ?-
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress and a dubious hand;
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.

In gay hostility and barbarous pride, With half mankind embattled at his side, Great Xerxes came to seize the certain prey, And starves exhausted regions in his way! Attendant flattery counts his myriads o'er, Till counted myriads soothe his pride no more; Fresh praise is tried till madness fires his mind, The waves he lashes, and enchains the wind; New powers are claimed, new powers are still bestowed, Till rude resistance lops the spreading god; The daring Greeks deride the martial show, And heap their valleys with the gaudy foe; The insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains, A single skiff to speed his flight remains; The encumbered oar scarce leaves the dreaded coast Through purple billows and a floating host.

But grant, the virtues of a temperate prime
Bless with an age exempt from scorn or crime ;
An age that melts with unperceived decay,
And glides in modest innocence away ;
Whose peaceful day benevolence endears,
Whose night congratulating conscience cheers;
The general favourite as the general friend;
Such age there is, and who shall wish its end ?

Yet even on this her load misfortune flings, To press the weary minutes' flagging wings;

New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens or a daughter mourns.
Now kindred merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear;
Year chases year, decay pursues decay,
Still drops some joy from withering life away ;
New forms arise, and different views engage,
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,
Till pitying nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace.

But few there are whom hours like these await, Who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate. From Lydia's monarch should the search descend, By Solon cautioned to regard his end, In life's last scene what prodigies surprise, Fears of the brave and follies of the wise ? From Marlborough's eyes the streams of dotage flow, And Swift expires a driveller and a show.

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ? Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind? Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate, Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ? Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise, No cries invoke the mercies of the skies? Inquirer, cease! petitions yet remain, Which heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain. Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to heaven the measure and the choice. Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar, The secret ambush of a specious prayer. Implore his aid, in his decisions rest, Secure whate'er he gives he gives the best. Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires, And strong devotion to the skies aspires, Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind, Obedient passions, and a will resigned ;

For love, which scarce collective man can fill;
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat :
These goods for man the laws of heaven ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the power to gain ;
With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

THE TEMPTATIONS OF ST. ANTHONY.

T. H. S.
ST. ANTHONY sat on a lowly stool,

And a book was in his hand ;
Never his eye from its page he took, .
Either to right or left to look,
But with steadfast soul, as was his rule,
The holy page he scanned.

. We will woo,” said the imp, “St. Anthony's eyes

Off from his holy book:
We will go to him all in strange disguise,
And tease him with laughter, whoops, and cries,

That he upon us may look.”

The Devil was in the best humour that day

That ever his highness was in: And that's why he sent out his imps to play, And he furnished them torches to light their way, Nor stinted them incense to burn as they may,

Sulphur, and pitch, and rosin.

So they came to the Saint in a motley crew,

A heterogeneous rout;
There were imps of every shape and hue,
And some looked black, and some looked blue,
And they passed and varied before the view,

And twisted themselves about;

And had they exhibited thus to you,
I think you'd have felt in a bit of a stew,-

Or so should myself, I doubt.

There were some with feathers, and some with scales,

And some with warty skins;
Some had not heads, and some had tails,
And some had claws like iron nails;
And some had combs and beaks like birds,
And yet, like jays, could utter words;

And some had gills and fins.

Some rode on skeleton beasts, arrayed

In gold and velvet stuff,
With rich tiaras on the head,
Like kings and queens among the dead;
While face and bridle-hand displayed,
In hue and substance seemed to cope
With maggots in a microscope,
And their thin lips, as white as soap,

Were colder than enough.

And spiders big from the ceiling hung,

From every creek and nook:
They had a crafty, ugly guise,
And looked at the Saint with their eight eyes ;
And all that malice could devise
Of evil to the good and wise

Seemed welling from their look.

Beetles and slow-worms crawled about,

And toads did squat demure;
From holes in the wainscoting mice peeped out,
Or a sly old rat with his whiskered snout;
And forty feet, a full span long,
Danced in and out in an endless throng;
There ne'er has been seen such extravagant rout
From that time to this, I'm sure.

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