CHAPTER XXII.

WOLSEY.

How fared the friends of De Freston, Daundy, Wolsey, the aged Sparrow, Samson, Felawe, Fastolf, Gooding, Cady, and such as were connected with the ancient borough of Ipswich, who were anxious to show respect more to the living lord than the dead St. Ivan? That night was death to the venerable Wolsey, the father of the scholar. The boat he was in got aground on Long Island, and the waters, at that period, were so full, as to fill all the flats of the Greenside, now called Greenwich Farm; so that the whole of that night was spent upon the shore, by this aged man, who was exposed to the rain and wind, and he never recovered from the ill effects of it. Robert Wolsey had been in his own boat, manned with his own six men, who were accustomed to convey his stores from his wharf and lands at Stoke; for Robert Wolsey was a man of some substance in those days--a large agriculturist and dealer in ships' stores, and especially in the victualling of all his Majesty's ships in the ports of Ipswich and Harwich.

The old man returned home the next day, having been taken off Long Island by his rich relatives' men, who came in quest of him the morning after the storm. Dame Joan was full of anxiety at the night, and at the delay, and dreaded the worst; but the worst was yet to come, for Robert Wolsey returned alive, took to his bed, and though, nursed with care, and supposed to be almost convalescent soon after making his last will and testament in the presence of Mr. Richard Farrington, suddenly declined and died, to the great grief of all his friends and connexions.

Wolsey was summoned from his college to attend upon the funeral of his father, and to administer to his last will and testament. His grief was heavy at the loss of a kind hand; but he started when he heard of the interest his friend Latimer had excited in the heart of Ellen De Freston. Never did his hopes receive so severe a blow as when he learnt, from his mother's lips, that Lord De Freston had consented to acknowledge Latimer as the future guardian of his lovely daughter. His mourning had a double weight--a burthen insurmountable to many, and even in his strong mind, not without a degree of weakness which changed the current of his years, and made him what the never would have been, the highest and most exalted subject in the realm, and afterwards the one most prostrate.

Few men were more wise for their years than Thomas Wolsey, when Fellow of Magdalen College, Oxford: few, if any, ever attained greater celebrity for his extraordinary progress in logic and philosophy: so that at twenty-four years of age, it might be said of him that he was, take him for all things, the wisest man in the University. Melancholy indeed were his reflections when he attended the funeral of his father, and heard the news of Ellen De Freston's engagement to Latimer. Up to this period of his existence, the secret bad been kept within his own soul, unless a slight breath thereof reached his mother's ear. It never would have been known beyond that ear, had not a very old poem, called 'Wolsey's Lament,' revealed it; and accounted for very much that was alike strange in his early years and upon no other grounds to be accounted for.

Wolsey's grief at the loss of his father was given out as the reason why he visited no one, would be seen by no one--excluded himself from all his former associates, and even deserted the mansion of his noble Lord De Freston. Ellen sent him an invitation--Latimer, unable to move to Ipswich, hoped he would come to him. He wanted to talk over College affairs; but Wolsey's heart sickened at these things. Dame Joan had the task of making excuses for him, which she did, assigning his utter inability to enjoy anything. A certain time he must remain at Ipswich to settle his father's affairs, prove his will, and administer to his effects. He felt that the sooner that time was over, the better it would be for him. Vain were all the kind letters, messages, and even personal attentions which the Lord of Freston Tower and his daughter paid to him. He could neither receive nor answer them: but wandered over the hills of Stoke, where he poured out his melancholy spirit.

There was a spot upon his father's estate which commanded from its summit an extensive view both of the Orwell and the Gipping. His parents used frequently to visit it on a summer's evening; and the old man had built a sort of summer house, and made a plantation round it. It was a lovely place, and rose abruptly, almost like a crag, from the green hills sloping around it. The landscape was at once grand, wide, and sweeping, commanding a direct view of the whole town beneath it, and the waters circling along the walls of St. Peter, and the ancient quay far away to the right of the spectator. Thence might be seen all the churches and religious houses in the vicinity, the shipping upon the Orwell, the boats ascending the Gipping, which at that time, instead of horses and waggons, conveyed the hay from the meadows, or the straw from the lands to the port of Ipswich. To this pleasant spot, did the now melancholy youth repair. His brow was careworn, and his heart ill at ease and sick with disappointment. He needed prayer to rouse him from his torpid state, or the cheerful voice of some confidential companion to take off the load of his distress; but he was too proud a spirit to own what he felt, or to open his lips to any one upon the subject. Yet would he sit hours together in that summer-house, away from every human being, and bend his glance upon the scene, and think of all that was gone by, not only in his own life, but for ages past.

Latimer had occasionally known him in his melancholy hours. He heard of his conduct, and could not conceal from himself, or others, the wish he had to go to him; but the weakness, arising from his dangerous illness, was of such an extent as to prevent the possibility of his seeking him, and ministering to him in friendship. Had the attempt been made, it would have been rejected; for Wolsey never would have said to him: 'Thou art thyself the cause of my distress.' His lament, however, which was written at that period, speaks the tone of the man's mind better than any words which can be said for him.

Wolsey's Lament.

Ye skies above me shining fair, And clouds transparent floating there, How bright ye seem! how swift ye fly! Ye seem to be in extacy, Why do ye shine so purely bright, On soul as gloomy as the night? Ye mock my sorrows as ye lightly roll, And seem to say, 'The scholar has no soul!'

I have a soul--I see ye shine; Would that my light were such as thine! Ye ride triumphantly along, Delighted as with cheerful song; But, oh! what mockery to see That you can thus be glad and free, Whilst I am chained with heavy loaded grief, Nor sky, nor clouds, nor sun can give relief.

O, glorious sun! thou shinest there The beacon of this hemisphere, Calling to life the seeds of earth And myriads to happy birth. They dance on silv'ry wing with glee, Made merry through the warmth of thee, Whilst I alone, 'neath thine All-warming ray, Feel not thine influence--so dark my day.

O, hide thee! hide thee in a storm, Or take the darkest, blackest form; Perchance my glominess were shock'd, And from mine heart, my grief unlocked, Might fly to thee, and happ'ly say, 'Sun, I am brighter than thy day;' But shine not now so brightly o'er my woes Thou mock'st the heart that darkness doth compose.

Ye trees so green, so freshly green! What vigour in your stems is seen; Why, robed in mantles of delight. Do ye thus mock my aching sight? Ye look so lovely in your smile; Have ye no pity in your guile? Why look so rich, enchanting to the eye, Of him who, like a severed leaf, must die?

Your leaves must wither, fall away; Another spring you'll look as gay; Your roots receive the vernal shower, Your buds put forth their leafy power; And grateful shades to love ye give, And bid the songsters happy live; But, oh! no love for me is found to dwell Within your shade, your love-enchanting spell.

Ye swallows passing on the wing, Catching at every tiny thing; Gliding so swiftly o'er the plain, And then returning back again; Ye summer friends with happy hearts, What pleasure life to you imparts! Ye know no winter! grief doth bring no care, To such as you, ye children of the air!

Oh! do not mock me! I would fly, Ay, lightly too, as happily, Could I but feel I had a wing Of love, could lighten such a thing As I am--heavy-hearted man-- In this, my short and dreary span. Go, fly away! depart to distant land; Mock not my spirit with your flirtings bland.

Ye hills around me, why so gay? Vanish! oh, vanish ye away! Why stand ye there in fertile pride, My heart and senses to deride? Ye looked so lovely; but of late, I could have contemplating sat Where now I sit, and long had wished to stay But flee ye! flee ye from my sight away!

How oft in shadowy forms ye rose! Not then exulting o'er my woes; But courted as Parnassus height. From wing of love to give me flight. My native hills, I weep, I groan, I feel, ay, wretchedly alone! Will ye be green to mock my broken heart? O! hills of Gypeswich, depart! depart!

Ye walls monastic, here and there, With turrets rising in the air; Sure not in England can be found Town with more consecrated ground. The streets are lost, they seem so small, Before the space ye claim for wall! Are monks and friars in their cells so free, They do but laugh at such a wretch as me?

So let them laugh with sidelong glance, I do detest their ignorance! Oh! if my soul could gain its hope, I'd give my native town some scope For learning, far above the trash Of superstitious, tasteless hash! But woe is me! I know not where to go To soothe the torment of this deadly blow.

Thou stream majestic! Orwell's tide, Why dost thou here so gently glide? And wash, with waves as soft as down, The borders of my native town? Have I thy bosom breasted well, With gently undulating swell. And shall I never more thy waters press? Oh, Orwell! rob me of this deep distress!

I'd kiss thy waves! I'd bow my knee, Could'st thou relieve mine agony; But now thy smile ungracious is, And speaks to me of others' bliss; Whilst I, who loved thy waters green, Am desolate and lonely seen. O! ye loved waters of my youthful day! Robbed of my love, how can ye love display?

Thou winding Gipping, where I strayed In boyhood on thy slopes I played, And loved to angle from thy banks, And sportive in my childish pranks, To gather wild flowers from thy side, How canst thou now my woes deride? Stream of mine infant steps, my tears would flow Were I beside thy gay banks walking now.

Yet thou dost move to meet the tide Of Orwell's waters, like a bride In garments white, and pure, and chaste. Oh! why so cheerful in thy haste? Ah! there ye give the mutual kiss, As that of matrimonial bliss, And never parted, never know ye pain, But flow united onward to the main.

Ye friends within my native town, Me, kindly, ye are proud to own; A father's form was lately there, With placid brow, and hoary hair, He's gone where I shall shortly go, And there but terminate my woe. O, friends of youth! I cannot now reveal The bitter anguish of my word, farewell!

Mother, ay, mother! in thine heart I found my own dear counterpart; For thou, in youth, wert all to me, Until this eye had turn'd from thee To give admiring thoughts to one, Who ne'er reflects them on thy son. O! mother, mother, never shall I know The heart's revival from this fatal blow.

Hills, woods, and valleys, is't a dream? Ye beauties of the Orwell's stream! Castles, and churches, monasteries, And all your rich varieties, Hereafter be ye dull to me, No more your beauties let me see, In aught that can another scholar move, To taste the sweetness of this scene of love.

Ye smile so sweetly--not for me-- I groan within to look on ye; Ye look so lovely, not to shine On anything I welcome mine; Ye breathe so softly on mine ear, Death seems to kill the atmosphere; Why do I not this moment here decay, And, sighing, breathe my very soul away?

O, agony! I turn mine eye To dwell on distant turret high, Where oft in joy extatic past, I've hoped my happiness would last, Where life with hope and love began. Ambition roused the rising man. O, darkest woe! O, weary, dismal hour! I loved--and lost--the maid of Freston Tower.

Weep, eyelids, weep your fountain dry, Ye ne'er can soothe mine agony; Lips, never ope again to speak, Save when the bursting heart will break; Tongue, cleave thou to thy parched roof, And never give one lisping proof That she I loved hath ne'er that love returned; My loss is greater than my love hath earn'd.

I cannot bear yon sails to see, So smoothly gliding merrily; Time was, they gave me joy to view Their contrast to the water's hue; And I was happy! happy then! To know both boats, and sails, and men. Now know I none! and none can welcome give To him who soon this busy scene must leave.

Oh! whisper not, ye zephyrs mild, Oh! whisper not to man or child, Nor tell it in my lady's bower-- To Ellen of De Freston's Tower! To friend, or father, that I sigh For her with deepest agony; Let not the noble or his daughter know. That Wolsey suffers from a rival's blow.

I'll far away for ever flee From this unknown catastrophe! I'll seek in science my relief! Science will only swell my grief; I'll court the cloister, try the priest, All will believe I loved it best! That my celibacy, for conscience' sake, Is for the holy orders I would take.

I'll rule my will, I'll curb my love, I'll bow submissive as the dove; O, Ellen! yes, for thee I bow, And never, never shalt thou know, Till in another world we meet, How sat the heart thou could'st not great! Deep in my soul thy virtues I can feel, But, that I love thee, tongue shall never tell!

Farewell, my friend! thou shalt not know How thy success has caused me woe; Though, like Prometheus, I am chained, I'll kindle fire which none have gained, For all shall see, and all partake The sacrifice I then shall make; O, Latimer! my friendship thou wilt prove, May'st thou ne'er feel the agony of love!

My native town, my native wave, My native hills, my parent's grave. My friends of youth, my days of joy, My hopes of fame, my life's alloy, My woes, my cares, my fears, my sighs, My sorrows, and my agonies, Must bend to fate, and future years must tell How my soul loved ye, when I said farewell!

This poem is extracted from one many hundred lines long, which when a poetical age shall come, may, perhaps, many years hence, be thought a great curiosity. It is in the possession of a gentleman who will doubtless preserve it, if he does not publish it.

This portion seems to be written upon Wolsey's property upon Stoke Hill, at the very spot where the high windmill, called Savage's Mill, afterwards stood--perhaps may now stand; and where the miller, if at all like Constable, the miller's son, one of our favorite British landscape painters, could not have failed often to have witnessed the beauty of the scene as described in 'Wolsey's Lament.'

It was soon after one of his longest reveries in this spot, that he received a message from Bishop Goldwell to go to him at Goldwell Hall, and Dame Joan informed him, that the Bishop was accompanied in his call that day by a very fine young woman, his niece, Alice De Clinton. There is a mood in a man, most strangely wayward, which prompts him to take a sudden thing into his head which he had for a long while rejected. The cup of woe, which men are made to drink, often for their good, is very bitter; and if the soul seeks not God for aid, it will be led only into further misery which it sees not, until, like an Alpine avalanche, it becomes overwhelming in its fall. In the humor Wolsey was in, he instantly determined to go, and stay at Goldwell Hall.

What a sudden change! The Bishop was a personal stranger to him. His vanity was perhaps touched by the attention as a compliment to his abilities. He thought not one moment of his refusal to visit Freston Tower: but to the astonishment of Dame Joan he immediately consented, and became that very day a guest, and indeed an honored guest, at the Bishop's Palace.