[_Last Cut._] [_3rd Grooves._]
_View of Westminster Abbey. Sunset._
_Enter three or four Citizens, meeting severally._
_1st Cit._ The skies weep not, there is no shock to the earth.
Art thou not Peter Ingram? Yet the king
Hath been beheaded, lost his head!
The king
Of England murther'd, slain in open day!
_2nd Cit._ I did not think they would do it--
Who'll be king
Now he is dead?
_3rd Cit._ Why some say none.
_4th Cit._ Indeed,
The Parliament is king.
_2nd Cit._ They say that Cromwell
Had much to do in this.
Were you there?
_1st Cit._ No.
_Others._ Nor I.
_2nd Cit._ Here comes another. We shall hear,
If he hath seen.
_Enter another Citizen._
_5th Cit._ Oh, eyes! Oh, ears! Alas!
_1st Cit._ Were you there?
_5th Cit._ Was I not? He died right well,
As 'twere a man that nothing had to lose,
Save the poor head he gave his enemies.
_1st Cit._ Indeed you're right, he had not much of late.
_2nd Cit._ How was it?
_5th Cit._ Well, they would not let him speak
Much, for the sound of the drums--are ye this way?
My wife is waiting, she is curious; come,
I'll tell you all I saw-- [_Exeunt severally._]
_Enter two Gentlemen, R. and L._
_1st Gent., L._ All, then, is o'er: the body they have taken
To lie in Whitehall--
_2nd Gent., R._ So I heard. Where are
The men who order'd it?
_1st Gent._ I know not. Cromwell
Was there; I noted him.
_2nd Gent._ How looked he when
The king came forth? I had no eyes for aught
Except the prisoner.
_1st Gent._ It so happen'd that,
Marking his face by chance, I could not keep
My eyes from off him.
_2nd Gent._ Ay, how did he seem?
For he had much to do in this great matter.
_1st Gent._ Ere all was ready, while 'mid wolfish noise
The patient pale king lipp'd the deafen'd air,
O'er Cromwell's face approaching doom grew large
In stony horror. Then 'twas calm and fix'd.
Destruction's god, from his broad, wizard throne,
Might on the front of coming whirlwinds, as
They near'd his footstool, look unchang'd as he did:
Sphinx-like!
But, when the deed was done,
The flash that left the swift-descending axe
In triumph fiercely shot into his eyes,
A moment welling quick successive fires,
Like sudden birth of stars 'tween wintry clouds:
Then came a look of doubt and wonderment,
As if it were a thing he knew not of,
And shudder'd at, amaz'd that it was so.
His hollow eye wan'd like the moon's eclipse;
And then he clutch'd his sword, and strove to read
Men's faces near him, and so, furious, leapt
On his black war-horse, standing saddled by,
And unattended, save by that red scene,
Like an arm'd pestilence, rode swift--away!
_2nd Gent._ You make me tremble with your picture; surely
This Cromwell is a great and wondrous man.
_1st Gent._ Unto all fortune doth he shape himself;
One knows not where he learnt it.
_2nd Gent._ They do say
A something did appear to him in youth,
Telling he should be great.
_1st Gent._ I think he hath
Whisper'd that round to choke the envious
With supernatural awe.
_2nd Gent._ I know not; but
He hath great power with the army, gain'd
By most corporeal acts.
_1st Gent._ Shall you attend
The funeral?
_2nd Gent._ It were not wise, I think;
There will be riots. It grows dark.
Good evening!
[_They part, 1st Gent. R., 2nd Gent. L., Exeunt._]
_The stage grows dark. Enter a Drunken Preacher
with a Rabble of Soldiers, Artisans, and Women,
U.E.L. and R._
_Preach._ So, my beloved, this Ahab has lost his
head, as it might be the froth of thin ale. I am
thirsty in the flesh! Will no man be a surety for
a poor preacher of the Lord at the sign of Balaam's
Ass? 'Tis hard by; and I would speak a few more
words of grace on this soul-stirring occasion, but my
tongue is parched. Ho! every one that thirsteth,
come unto me,--or I will go with you.
_A Soldier._ Hold thy peace; for I would fain speak.
This is a great day in Israel.
_Preach._ Hear me, my brethren! This is a false prophet.
_Sold._ Smite him!
_Woman._ Nay, touch him an' you dare. [_To the
Soldier._] 'Tis Master Ephraim Bumling. I would
thy head were chopped off, like the sour-faced king's
this morning.
_1st Art._ Down with all kings!
_2nd Art._ No taxes!
_3rd Art._ We'll all be kings!
_4th Art._ With our heads on, though.
_1st Art._ Cease quarrelling, and come and play at skittles.
_2nd Art._ With the king's head for a ball?
_A Woman._ Ay, he was a bad man to his wife,
and deserved to die.
_3rd Art._ And a pagan Turk.
_2nd Art._ That would have made all us Christians deny pork.
_3rd Art._ And built ships with our houses.
_2nd Art._ Well, it's a rare sight to see a king die.
A bishop is something; but a king is a treat for a poor man's holiday.
_1st Art._ But we shall not be poor now.
_All._ Down with all kings! Live Cromwell! live
the Parliament, live Fairfax, live everybody!
[_Exeunt severally._]
_Stage dark. The moon shines brilliantly upon the abbey._
_Enter CROMWELL, cloaked, U.E.R._
_Crom._ This night the place looks older than it is,
As if some future centuries had pass'd,
Leaving their shadows on it--
Yon tall towers,
That pierce the unsettled sky,
Seem not to point unto the stars that watch
My coming greatness; but with solemn air
To frown back on the memory of Cromwell--
Yon dark cathedral, whose sharp turret spires
Look like funereal firs on Ararat,
When the sun setting stream'd in blood upon
The fast decaying waters--that huge pile
Of gloomy worship to the God of ages,
Feels like this age's tomb and monument.
Would I were buried in it, so I might
Sleep there--for O, I cannot sleep to-night.
My molten blood runs singing through my veins.
It is no wonder: I have known less things
Disturb my rest; besides, there is a thought
Hath led me forth--Come, let me deal with it.
'Tis midnight! Now to face him were a deed,
To feel that one had done it--not to tell.
To fold the arms and look upon the work
That I have wrought with stedfast, iron will--
There's evil fascination in the thought:
Grows to desire!
I cannot stay my feet!
Like one in dreams, or hurried by a storm,
That hales him on with wild uncertain steps,
I move on to the thing I dread.
[_Sighs deeply._]
Methought
A voice stole on mine ears--as if a sword
[_Sighs again._]
Clove the oppressive air. Why do I shrink?
On Naseby field my bare head tower'd high;
And now I bend me, though my tingling ears
Unconscious but drink in the deep-drawn sigh,
That doth attend on greatness.
This is folly.
O coward fancy, lie still in thy grave!
A king doth keep his coffin, why not thou?
I'll meet him like a conqueror, whose cheek
Flushes with manly pity. Could it be
That he had lived without his country's shame!
But no! and thus, I come, Charles Stuart! to tell
Thy bloodless clay, that I repent me _not_!
No! if a hecatomb of kings were slain,
I'd own the deed unto their legion'd spirits! [_Exit, L._]