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.