“Were there no other language but that of simple, honest affection, what a world of poetry would remain to us in the universe of love!  You may be excited to sorrow for his fate by recalling the varied incidents of his attractive life:  you may mourn over the ruins of his chapel at his native village:  you may weep over the fatal result of his ill-starred patriotism:  you may glow over his successes in the field or on the wave:  your lip may curl with scorn at the miserable jealousy of Elizabeth:  your eye may kindle with wrath at the pitiful tyranny of James—­but how will your sympathies be so awakened as by reading his last, simple, touching letter to his wife.

“’You receive, my dear wife, my last words, in these my last lines.  My love, I send you that you may keep it when I am dead; and my counsel, that you may remember it when I am no more.  I would not with my will present you with sorrows, dear Bess—­let them go to the grave with me and be buried in the dust—­and, seeing that it is not the will of God that I should see you any more, bear my destruction patiently, and with a heart like yourself.

“’First—­I send you all the thanks which my heart can conceive, or my words express, for your many travels and cares for me, which, though they have not taken effect as you wished, yet my debt to you is not the less; but pay it I never shall in this world.

“’Secondly—­I beseech you, for the love you bear me living, that you do not hide yourself many days, but by your travels seek to help my miserable fortunes and the right of your poor child—­your mourning cannot avail me that am dust—­for I am no more yours, nor you mine—­death hath cut us asunder, and God hath divided me from the world, and you from me.

“’I cannot write much.  God knows how hardly I steal this time when all sleep.  Beg my dead body, which, when living, was denied you, and lay it by our father and mother—­I can say no more—­time and death call me away;—­the everlasting God—­the powerful, infinite, and inscrutable God, who is goodness itself, the true light and life, keep you and yours, and have mercy upon me, and forgive my persecutors and false accusers, and send us to meet in his glorious kingdom.

    “My dear wife—­farewell!  Bless my boy—­pray for me, and let the true
    God hold you both in his arms.

    “’Yours, that was; but now, not mine own,

    “‘WALTER RALEIGH.’”

“Thus a few fond words convey more poetry to the heart than a whole world of verse.

“We know not any man’s history more romantic in its commencement, or more touching in its close, than that of Raleigh—­from the first dawn of his fortunes, when he threw his cloak before the foot of royalty, throughout his brilliant rise and long imprisonment, to the hour when royalty rejoiced in his merciless martyrdom.

“Whether the recital of his eloquent speeches, the perusal of his vigorous and original poetry, or the narration of his quaint, yet profound ’History of the World,’ engage our attention, all will equally impress us with admiration of his talent, with wonder at his achievements, with sympathy in his misfortunes, and with pity at his fall.”