[_Last Grooves._]
_A State Room in Whitehall. The moon shines through
the windows._
_On a large bed with crimson hangings, surmounted
with black plumes, is seen a Coffin and pall, richly
emblazoned with the royal arms of England. On
each side an Ironside keeping guard with a matchlock.
They walk to and fro, and speak as they meet._
_1st Iron._ I tell thee, Bowtell, I would this watch
were over.
_2nd Iron._ I would it were a bright morning, with
our pike-heads glittering in the sun. I would rather
it were a charge of Rupert's best cavalry in our rear.
_1st Iron._ I mind when I saw him once alive, 'twas
at the close of the fight, and he would have charged
once more, but a false Scotch noble held him back to
his ruin. Had I been he, I would have cloven the
false Scot to the chine. I was a prisoner, and near
him; he had a tall white plume then. His dark face
showed very eager beneath it.
_2nd. Iron._ Ay, I have heard good Jepherson tell
of it, and how the Lord blinded them all.
_1st Iron._ I mind his very words,--
"Charles Stuart begs a little loyal blood
To do him right--a charge, but one more charge!
Come on, we do command, come on.
O cowards!
Had I but fifty of my nephew Rupert!"
And then he waved his sword, as 'twere the whole
cut and thrust exercise in the air at once, and his
plume fluttered like a white bird in the eye of a
tempest. If he should speak now--[_A footstep is
heard, both look round._]
_2nd Iron._ Didst thou hear nought?
_1st Iron._ O for a stoop of strong waters!
_2nd Iron._ Hist! 'twas like a soldier's tread in the
long gallery beyond.
_1st Iron._ Nay, 'tis the echo of thine own feet.
_2nd Iron_ 'Tis a footstep. Hark, it stops!
_1st Iron._ Do thou speak.
_Enter CROMWELL, L._
[_They bring their matchlocks to bear._] The word, or
else we fire!
_Crom._ [_Muttering._] Had Zimri peace, who slew
his master?
_2nd Iron._ Hold! 'Tis the General.
_Crom._ Ha! how fare you?
[_The Soldiers move towards the door, coming from
the coffin._]
Stay, Bowtell!
Open me yonder coffin, dost not hear?
Quick, fool! Thy mouth is all agape; as if
Thou didst lack tidings. What dost quiver for?
Give me thy sword. [_Wrenches open the coffin._]
I would see how he looks:
Perchance, I may undo the look he sent, [_Aside._]
In search of me this morn from off the scaffold.
_Bow._ My Lord!
Shall we go?
_Crom._ Ay, I would lift my voice
In prayer awhile. Nay, leave your matchlocks. So.
[_Exeunt Soldiers._]
[_The steps of the Soldiers are heard gradually
retreating. CROMWELL following them to the side._]
It is an hour since I did speak to them!
The air is life-like and intelligent,
I seem to fret it as I move along;
Yet this is Death's abode!
[_Looks cautiously round--calls in another tone._]
Ho! there--hola!
We are alone. I do forget me--stay--
[_Advances to the coffin._]
Like the hot iron to the quivering flesh
Be this test to my soul, to look on him,
To set my living face by his dead face;
Then tax him with the deeds for which I slew him.
[_Opens the coffin very gently._]
O Thou discrowned and insensible clay!
Thou beggar corpse!
Stripp'd, 'midst a butcher'd score, or so, of men,
Upon a bleak hill-side, beneath the rack
Of flying clouds torn by the cannon's boom,
If the red, trampled grass were all thy shroud,
The scowl of Heaven thy plumed canopy,
Thou might'st be any one!
How is it with thee? Man! Charles Stuart! King!
See, the white, heavy, overhanging lids
Press on his grey eyes, set in gory death!
How blanch'd his dusky cheek! that late was flush'd
Because a people would not be his slaves,
And now a, worm may mock him--
This strong frame
Promis'd long life, 'tis constituted well;
'Twas but a lying promise, like the rest!
Dark is the world, of tyranny within
Yon roofless house, where Silence holds her court
Before Decay's last revel.
Yet, O king,
I would insult thee not. But if thy spirit
Circle unseen around the guilty clay,
Till it be buried, and those solemn words
Give "dust to dust," leaving the soul no home
On this vain earth,
O hear me!
Or if still
There be a something sentient in the body,
Through all corruption's stages, till our frames
Rot, rot, and seem no more,--and thus the soul
Is cag'd in bones through which the north wind rattles,
Or haunts the black skull wash'd up by the waves
Upon the moaning shore--poor weeping skull,
From whose deep-blotted, eyeless socket-holes
The dank green seaweed drips its briny tear--
If it be so, that round the festering grave,
Where yet some earth-brown, human relic moulders,
The parting ghost may linger to the last,
Till it have share in all the elements,
Shriek in the storm, or glide in summer air,
O hear me!
Or, if thou hast stood already,
Shrivell'd, but for His mercy, into nought,
Before the blaze of Heaven's offended eye,
And hast receiv'd thy sentence--Hear me, thence!
There is none with us now!
Thus then I lay my hand upon thy breast,
And while my heart is nearly still as thine,
Swear that I slew thee but to stop thy crimes;
(O soul of Charles, wilt thou not plead for Cromwell?)
Swear that I would my head were low as thine,
Could'st thou have liv'd belov'd, and loving England--
For I have done a deed in slaying thee
Shall wring the world's heart with its memory;
Men shall believe me not, as they are base,
Fools shall cry "hypocrite," as they dare judge
The naked fervour of my struggling soul.
God judge between us!--I am arm'd in this,
Could'st thou have reign'd, not crushing English hearts
With fierce compression of thine iron sway,
Cromwell had liv'd contented and unknown
To teach his children loyalty and faith
Sacred and simple, as the grass-grown mound,
That should have press'd more lightly on his bones,
Than ever greatness on his wearied spirit!
_Re-enter the Ironsides, L. They ground their Matchlocks._
[_CROMWELL starting._] Another blow? no, no! there was but one:
He suffered nothing!
_Bowt._ Worthy General,
We are return'd.
_Crom._ [_Replacing his Cloak, after covering the
Coffin, as before._] Ha! have ye drunk well, fellows?
I knew not that ye had such cold work here.
[_Gives them Money._]
Now, on your lives, no word of this.
_Bowt._ May 't please you,
What form of Government shall we have now?
_Crom._ It does not please me, fool! to stand here prating;
Ask _him_ trick'd out in yonder lying state,
Who shall succeed him. [_Points to the Coffin._]
Surely, I know nought,
That am the meanest servant of the Lord
To do his work alone. See ye to yours. [_Exit, L._]
[_The Sentinels resume their walk. The Clock strikes
one. As it strikes, the Guard is heard approaching,
and whilst it is relieving them the Scene closes._]
END OF ACT IV.