My noon-day walks He shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.

When in the fultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountains pant;
To fertile vales, and dewy meads,
My weary wand'ring fteps He leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and flow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.

Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfaft heart shall fear no ill,
For Thou O LORD art with me ftill;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.

Though in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I ftray,
Thy bounty fhall my pains beguile;
The barren wildness shall smile,
With fudden greens and herbage crown'd
And ftreams fhall murmur all around.

CARDINAL WOLSEY's LAMENTATION

OF HIS FALL.

[SHAKSPEARE.]

FAREWEL, a long farewel to all my greatness!

This is the ftate 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 greatnefs is a rip'ning, nips his root:
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These 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 ftream, which muft for ever hide me.
Vain
pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye :
I feel my heart new open'd. O how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that fmile which we aspire to,
That sweet regard of princes and our ruin,
More pangs and fears than war and women know;

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miferies; but thou haft forc'd me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.-
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Crom-
well;

Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me,

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And fleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard: fay then, I taught thee;
Say, Wolfey, that once rode the waves of glory,
And founded all the depths and fhoals of honour,
Found thee a way, out of this wreck, to rife in:
A fure and fafe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Cromwell, I charge thee, throw away ambition;
By that fin fell the angels; how can man then
(The image of his Maker) hope to win by't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that wait thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To filence envious tongues. Be just and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'ft at be thy country's,
Thy GoD's and truth's: then if thou fall'ft, O
Cromwell!

Thou fall'ft a blessed martyr. Serve the king;
And pr'ythee, lead me in-

There take an inventory of all I have,

To the laft penny, 'tis the king's. My robe,
And my integrity to Heaven, is all

I now dare call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but ferv'd my GoD with half the zeal

I ferv'd my king, He would not in my age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.

THE MAN or ROSS.

[POPE.]

BUT all our praises why fhould lord's engrofs?

Rife honeft mufe! and fing the man of Rofs:
Pleas'd Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,
And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.
Who hung with woods yon mountain's fultry brow?
From the dry rock who bad the waters flow?
Nor to the skies in ufelefs.columns toft,
Or in proud falls magnificently lost,

But clear and artlefs pouring through the plain
Health to the fick, and folace to the swain.
Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows
Whose feats the weary traveller repose ?

Who feeds yon alms-house, neat but void of state,
Where age and want fit fmilling at the gate?
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?
The Man of Rofs, each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erfpread!
The Man of Rofs divides the weekly bread:
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, bleft,
young who labour, and the old who reft.

The

Is any

fick? The Man of Rofs relieves, Prescribes, attends, the med'cine takes and gives. Is there a variance? Enter but his door. Balk'd are the courts, and conteft is no more. Despairing quacks with curses fled the place, And vile attornies, now an useless race. "Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue "What all fo wish, but want the pow'r to do. "O fay, what fums that gen'rous hand supply? "What mines to fwell that boundless charity ?" Of debts and taxes, wife or children clear, This man poffefs'd-five hundred pounds a year. Blufh, grandeur, blush; proud courts, withdraw your blaze:

Ye little ftars! hide your diminish'd rays.

"And what! No monument, infcription, ftone? "His race, his form, his name almost unknown?" Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.