SCENE I.
[_Last Grooves._]
_Table, Chairs, Writing Materials._
_Whitehall. LADY CROMWELL, R. and FLORENCE, L.
Discovered coming forward._
_Lady Crom._ R. No! There is not one of us he
would hear save Elizabeth, and since the day before
yesterday, as I tell you, she hath been in a raging
fever, and delirious; and, to-morrow, you tell me, it
is fixed that your cousin dies. Will not the Protector
see you?
_Flor._ L. He will not!
_Lady Crom._ Alas! poor maid. I know not what to do.
_Flor._ Madam, where doth your daughter lie!--
_Lady Crom._ In my room, this way--why, you
look sadly yourself--pale as a corpse.
_Flor._ Do I?--I would have it so. Think you it is
an easy death when the heart bleeds inwardly?
_Lady Crom._ Hush! cease talking so, child!
_Flor._ I do remember, journeying hither once,
On horseback, that I saw a poor lad, slain
In some sad skirmish of these cruel wars;
There seem'd no wound, and so I stay'd by him,
Thinking he might live still. But, ever, whilst
I stretch'd to reach some trifling thing for aid,
His sullen head would slip from off my knee,
And his damp hair to earth would wander down,
Till I grew frighten'd thus to challenge Death,
And with the king of terrors idly play.--
Yet those pale lips deserted not the smile
Of froward, gay defiance, lingering there,
Like a tir'd truant's sleeping on the grass,
Mid the stray sun-beams of unsadden'd hope,
Dreaming of one perpetual holiday.
_Lady Crom._ And was he dead?--Tell me what came of him.
_Flor._ The silent marches of the stars had clos'd
The slow retreat of that calm summer noon,
Ere I compos'd his gentle limbs to rest,
And left him where he lay. No crimson wound,
No dark ensanguin'd stain did sully him:
Yet had some fatal missile reach'd his heart,
That bled, as mine does now, within, within!
_Lady Crom._ How sad a tale; yet; all will still be well.
Yield not to this wild burst of agony.
_Flor._ O, I was happy and I knew it not,
But jested with the heart that lov'd me well.
The sickening echo of each foolish word
I said to pain him comes to torture me--
_Lady Crom._ Cease, cease! Indeed my heart is sad enough.
My daughter needs us.
_Flor._ O forgive me, Madam!
My grief seem'd thoughtless of another's woe,
And I that love her so?--I'll go with you
This instant, watch by her, and pray for all
This most unhappy world. Come, let us seek her--
Haste! Will she know me, think you? Lean on me,
You are fatigued with watching. I am strong.
[_Exeunt, U.E.R._]
_Enter CROMWELL alone, R._
_Crom._ How well he died, that liv'd not well--his words
Strike cold here. Kings have died ere now, whose lives
Were needless, hurtful to their people's good,
But none so meek as this. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Hast thou done well! O could an angel light
The deepest corner of thy secret mind,
And tell thee thou'rt not damned to Hell for this,
The avenging act of horror--or that, inspir'd,
Thou wert the minister of Heaven's decree,
And that ambition drugg'd not thy design
With soul-consuming poison! I, this I,
Have done it--for what!--Which is't? To live and reign?
Or crown the smiling land with good? Well, both!
If I have sinn'd, it was at least for all.
The puny stripling calls not his love, lust:
The passions that we have in us may blend
With noble purpose and with high design;
Else men who saw the world had gone astray
Would only wish it better--and lie down,
In vain regret to perish.--
How his head
Roll'd on the platform with deep, hollow sound!
Methinks I hear it now, and through my brain
It vibrates like the storm's accusing knell,
Making the guilty quake. I am not guilty!
It was the nation's voice, the headsman's axe.
Why drums it then within my throbbing ear?--
I slew him not!
_Enter PEARSON, L._
_Pear._ My Lord! there is one here
Would speak with you--
_Crom._ Admit him. Am I not
The servant of this country, to see all
That come to me?--
[_PEARSON goes out, and returns with BASIL. PEARSON retires, L._]
_Basil._ Health to the General!
_Crom._ Good Master Basil, welcome.
I am griev'd,
Most griev'd in spirit for your brother; yet
I must not pardon him. I have receiv'd
Your protestation--
_Basil._ I have done much service,
Good service to the state; I ask his life,
Not liberty.
_Crom._ It cannot be, and yet
I lov'd him well myself. It must not be,
[_Pause._] Yet you have done good service. I am glad
You do insist on it. I had not yielded
To any other--but you have a right
To ask this thing, and I am bound to grant it;
I am glad it comes from you, his brother, here--
[_Signs a paper and hands it to BASIL._]
What will you do with him?
_Basil._ I fear, my Lord,
There is such treason prov'd--the colonies--
_Crom._ Nay! Let him where he will; but not to stay
In England for his head--he dies, if found here
Two days hence--
_Basil._ Thanks, my Lord, it shall be seen to.
A brother's thanks--farewell-- [_He goes out, L._]
_Crom._ How different is
The aspect of these brethren, most unlike
The soul of each to his face--The brow of Arthur
So open and so clear, and yet a traitor.
Indeed, methinks the countenance, which oft
Is the mask fitted to the character
Of gross and eager sensualists, is but
A lying index to the subtle souls
Of villains more acute.
Come hither, Pearson!
Thou know'st me well. Speak, wherefore doubting thus
I feel my soul aghast at its own being?
Methought just now all Hell did cry aloud,
"Conscience can give no peace, the liar Conscience,
That knows not what she prates"--Out, out on
Conscience!
She that did whisper peace unto my soul,
But now, before the fearful shadow came
That since my boyhood often visits me,
And with dark musings fills my brain perturb'd;
Making the current of my life-blood stagnate,
My heart the semblance of a muffled bell,
Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like
The prickly writhings of a new-slough'd snake;
Each several moment as the awaken'd glare
Of the doom'd felon starting from his sleep,
While the slow, hideous meaning of his cell
Grows on him like an incubus, until
The truth shoots like an ice-bolt to his brain
From his dull eyeball; then, from brain to heart
Flashes in sickening tumult of despair--
As in this bosom.
_Pear._ 'Tis black Melancholy!
I've read of such, my Lord; it hath no part
With what men think, or do;--'tis physical--
A holy preacher feels the self-same thing,
That ne'er outstepp'd his sacred village round;
'Tis often nurs'd of this damp, noxious climate:
Most excellent men have suffer'd it--
Thou know'st
I have seen bloody deeds beneath the sun
Upon the Spanish main, when I was young.
_Crom._ What of them, say?--I thought thou loved'st not
To speak thyself a pirate--
_Pear._ 'Twas, my Lord,
Ere I knew grace, or my most honour'd master.
_Crom._ I trust thou art forgiven.
_Pear._ I'd not speak
Of deed of mine, my Lord. I did but think
That in the sunlit tropics I had known
The wantonness of cruelty; and seen
Aged men grown grey in crime, whose hair thus blanch'd
Show'd white, like sugar by hot blood refin'd.
_Crom._ What of this!--Tell me what thou knew'st of them.
_Pear._ I never knew desponding doubt or fear
Curdle the healthy current of their veins;
They never shudder'd at a blood-red kerchief,
But on their shining knife-blades, as they smok'd
On deck through the long summer noon, would show
The dents and notches to their younger fellows,
As thus--"This cut a Spanish merchant's throat,
With wealthy ingots laden; this the rib-bone
Of his lean Rib, that clutch'd an emerald brooch
Too eagerly, hath rasp'd--and here, d'ye see a chip?
This paid the reckoning of a skin-flint purser."
_Crom._ What meanest thou by this?--
_Pear._ I mean, my Lord,
The frequent gloom that clouds thy noble spirit,
Is born of humours natural to thy body;
And, as foul vapours blur the honest sun,
Hangs o'er the face of the high enterprize,
That hath enrich'd thy name, not harm'd thy soul.
_Enter a Servant, L._
_Ser._ My Lord, good Master Milton waits without,
Desiring presence of you.--
_Crom._ Pearson, go.
I would see him alone. Perchance his words
[_Exit PEARSON, L. Servant follows._]
May ease my tortur'd breast.
[_Rings a small bell. Enter a Servant, L._]
Ask quickly, how
My daughter fares, if she be better--
[_Servant crosses behind and exit, R._]
Lo!
If I should lose her. Nay! it cannot be.
My thoughts seem driven like the wind-vex'd leaves
That eddy round in vain: fy, fy upon me!
Was not Saul doom'd? but David slew him not,
Yet Heaven led him through the winding cave,
Sealing the watchers' lids, and to his hand
Gave the bright two-edg'd blade, that in his eyes
Looked with cold meaning, bloodless it remain'd--
Would it were so now!
_Servant re-enters, R._
_Ser._ She is worse, my Lord,
And raves incessantly; the doctors shook
Their heads when I did ask, and bade me tell you
There is no hope--
_Crom._ [_Motions him to go._] Why comes not Master Milton?
[_Servant crosses behind to L. sees Milton._]
_Ser._ My Lord, he waits without for aid to enter.
[_Exit Servant, L. and re-enters leading MILTON._]
_Crom._ Good Milton, I am sick at heart. Think you the world
Will judge me very harshly?--
_Mil._ Sir, believe
By far the nobler half of England's hearts
Will be yours, when long centuries have nurs'd
The troubles of these frantic times to rest;
The feverish strife, the hate and prejudice
Of these days, soon shall fly, and leave great acts
The landmarks of men's thoughts, who then shall see
In these events that shake the world with awe,
But a great subject, and a base bad king
Interpreted aright.
_Crom._ [_Aside._] My child! my child!
She is dying, and condemns me--[_to Milton_] Thou art wise,
Prudent, and skill'd in learned rhetorick--
Think'st thou 'twere sad to gaze upon the look,
That sudden on the harlot's painted features,
Set in the stale attraction of forc'd smiles,
Darkens so wildly--that, like one amaz'd,
From the crack'd glass she staggers, to her brow
Lifts her wan, jewell'd finger--tries to think?
The wanton provocation of her features
Chang'd all to sickly twilight, blank dismay--
And when thought comes, to see the poor wretch quiver,
Her eyes' fire turn'd to water--those blue eyes,
Where once sweet fancies woven danc'd in fight--
To see the Present, Future, Past, appal her?--
The Spectre of her grown up life arise
Ever between her childhood's innocent dawn,
And the lost thing, herself--to see her choke
Upon her scanty food?--see grim Despair
Clutch her polluted bosom?--see her teeth,
Pearls that have outliv'd their neglected home,
Shine whiter in that ruin?--
_Mil._ 'Twere a sight
To bid the palsied heart of Lewdness grieve,
Youth grow a hermit, Age old vices leave!
_Crom._ Yet hast thou ne'er beheld the thing, I say?--
Thou answerest me not. I know thy life;
'Twas ever pure; still thou art of this world,
And so hast read their living epitaph,
Whose souls being buried in lust's grave, at night
Their mortal frames walk forth--reversing death.
I ask thee, then, dost thou not know the thing
That I have painted?
_Mil._ [_Aside._] Is his mind distraught?
[_Aloud._] I have seen this, and more. What of it?
_Crom._ Thus!
Shall he that caus'd it suffer?
_Mil._ On his Mood
Vampires should batten--
_Crom._ Yet, 'tis like she met
His guilty thought half-way; 'twas in the course
Of nature, when the blood is hot. Contention
Led both to the encounter. When youth sins,
Reason flies daunted--to return with arms
Poison'd and terrible.--
_Mil._ The lean excuse
Of whirlwind Passion's victims. Homicide,
Murder, theft, rapine, plead it--
_Crom._ Think you then,
Should one array'd in reasoning manhood's arms
Have done this? Were the victim bright and good,
Round whose young heart sweet household fancies play'd,
Each natural thought of her enthusiast mind
Pure as the snow that softly veils the earth
'Tween Christide eve and morning white-enrob'd;
And yet her sum of suffering were great
As that, which I have painted for the child
Of sin and misery--her silken cheek
Defil'd by ashen trace of furrowing tears,
Her sinless eye dim as a Magdalen's;
And he that caus'd it lov'd her as a father,
Knowing no fiery passion, unchaste thought,
To rob him of his brain, his heart, and then--
_Mil._ There's no such thing!
_Crom._ There is, I say, here! here!
_Mil._ Lord General, I stand amazed!
_Crom._ Judgment!
The Judgment! my good Milton. O my child!
My best belov'd, my sweet Elizabeth,
Is such a sacrifice. The cause how different,
But the effect the same. Thou think'st it strange
To pluck such image from remembrance forth--
And use it thus. There is a chain unseen,
Linking the human beggar to the king,
Virtue to vice; whereon doth sympathy
Like lightning play between the two extremes,
And so connect them. There is none can say
"I am not as that man in anything."
I spoke of one that was a woman, one
That died repentant, one perchance in Heaven!
My daughter's face, I tell thee, grows like her's.
Reason not on it. O! The fault is here
Why she lies stricken thus. [_Touches his breast._]
Her tender frame
Pines day and night, her young life breeding, sapp'd,
Curs'd in the tainted thought of my ambition--
And she will die and sink into the grave,
Prey'd on by doubt and horror of her father!
Ere Hampden's death had seal'd the bond of strife,
Thou knowest not, how oft to quit these shores
With angel fervour she entreated me,
And girt by true hearts--all my soul held dear--
To seek a home in that far western clime--
Nay, start not at the name--America!*
Where boundless forests whisper Liberty
With all their million-musick'd leaves, and blue lakes
Murmur it, and great cataracts, that light
With flash of whirling foam the tempest's scowl,
To souls untam'd as they, roar Freedom!
[_Crosses the Stage._] Ay!
Thus to escape remorse--
Leaving this work to God and to His will,
That I perchance too rashly made mine own,
And noble hearts had follow'd and I had sav'd
Her, so soon lost for ever! Is not this
A thought had madden'd Brutus, though all Rome
Did hail him saviour, while the Capitol
Rock'd, like a soul-stirr'd Titan, to its base
With their free acclamation?--
_Mil._ Was there not
Another Brutus?--
_Crom._ Tell me not of Rome!
Why speak not of the warriors of the forest
Where I had gone, but for black destiny!
They triumph in the torture of their kind,
Their grinning honour must be stain'd with blood;
'Tis their religion to be feelingless.
Why dost not lead me through yon corridor
To gaze upon some hawk-nos'd effigy,
And say, "This Roman slew his friend, his brother,
His daughter--'Twas a great soul, and he liv'd
A thousand years ago, and this is reason
For thy warm daughter's death--that breathes and speaks
With dainty actions nestling round thy heart,
Woven in thine existence"--her, I priz'd
More than the rest, whose gentle voice was as
The harp of David to my gloomy soul--
Go! thou art wise; but here thy skill is folly!
_Mil._ I little dreamt, my lord! to hear you speak
So wildly and so sadly of the course
Of your most virtuous and ennobling deeds.
Think not I do not mourn the angel light
That beam'd upon your path, soon haply fled,
Flushing the sky with rosy winnowings
Of dove-like wings, a Spirit, to the God
Who gave her thee, and so recalls. She is
A pure devoted woman, and thy child--
Thus far I understand thy soul's repinings.
But so to start as shaken by a dream
From an unquiet couch, to grope in night
And wailing darkness, thus to storm and rave,
To mock the God of battles and thy might;
To let the rod that scourg'd the pestilent land
Fall from thy tender hold--I had not thought
Of this, and I had rather died than see it.
True thou wert less than father, more than man
To bear no sorrow. Yet should England soar
Far, far above the sad domestic grave
Of Cromwell's dearest love of kin or kind;
And the big tear, that in the eye will gather,
In him should only halo freedom's sun
With brighter lustre, holier radiance.
_Crom._ Speak on, the passion passes. Yet be kind,
Read not thy lesson sternly; for in grief
There is much tumult and forgetfulness.
When my son died 'twas different; though his death
Went to my heart, indeed it did, a son
That might have wielded England's destinies;
And now I cannot look beyond the night
Of mine own day (it is late evening with me
Already) for a soul to guide this people.
How bravely bare I his young, glorious death,
And when one died at Marston afterward,
I wrote his father bidding him rejoice,
And something boasted of mine own bereavement,
I said, "Forget your private sorrow, sir,
In this late public mercy, victory
Unto the saints." O bitter fool, to chide
A father so, when I might lose my daughter!
[_A trumpet is heard without._]
Hear'st thou? [_Walks up and down a moment._] 'Tis
Harrison. News from the camp
Forget this, honour'd friend! [_To Milton._]
_Mil._ I will, I do!
_Crom._ Now I could hew my way
Amidst a thousand. Give me my steel cap,
My sword and iron greaves, my vant-braces:
I will array in proof.
What is the shock
Of living squadrons to the armed thoughts,
Whose dark battalions I have just now quell'd?
I would the clouds of battle roll'd around
This moment. Lo! my spirit is reviv'd
Like Samson's, when he drank at Ramath-lehi--
_Enter IRETON and IRONSIDES, L._
What is it?
_Ire._ Mutiny! The soldiers swear
That they will have their right--
_Crom._ Their _right_, said'st thou?
Come, Ireton, you and I will give them it;
But, by the Lord, they'll wish for wrong again
Ere I have done with them.
_Ire._ 'Twere best to take
Your faithful guard--
_Crom._ I'll take _none_. What! They are
Mine own. I'll deal with them.
If thou dost fear,
Son Ireton, stay behind. What! be afraid
Of my own rascals I have drill'd and led
So frequently?
Come on, I did but need
This pretty farce to stir me. Mutiny!
I'll strike the leaders' heads off, at the head
Each of his column--
Follow me, son Ireton!
No other--
[_Exit CROMWELL and IRETON, L. The guard look amazed._]
_Mil._ Who thus seeing him, shall say,
This man is not Heaven's chosen instrument? [_Exit. L._]
[_The Ironsides follow Milton._]
SCENE II.
[_1st Cut._] [_3rd Grooves._]
_Near the Tower. A Street in London._
_People are seen gazing from windows and balconies.
Slow military music is heard behind the scenes.
It gradually approaches U.E.L. Enter a procession
of Soldiers, in the midst ARTHUR bare-headed.
He looks up to a balcony, where FLORENCE
is standing--she waves a handkerchief and throws
it to him. He kisses it, and placing it in his
bosom, smiles, then slowly exeunt, U.E.R._
_Enter BASIL hurriedly, L. FLORENCE comes from
the door of the house to meet him. She is dressed
in a white robe._
_Bas._ Well, madam, how is it! To live or die?
_Flor._ Oh! hasten, hasten. They are gone; you may
Fall down, be stopp'd, give me the pardon--quick!
_Basil._ No! I think not. I'll take it. Think you of
Your promise--will you keep it?
_Flor._ Yes! yes! if I live
A month, I will be thine.
_Basil._ Tis well! I go:
I am a little lame, but shall be there,
I do protest, in time. They give some moments
To stale device of prayer; as if they car'd
For him they slay--What! anxious? So am I,
That have so great a stake in this event,
To save a brother and to gain a wife--
[_Kisses the tips of his fingers._]
A rivederci, as the Italian saith. [_Goes out, U.E.R._]
_Flor._ The hands of yonder clock do pierce my heart
Like daggers till he comes. O God! forgive me,
Let me but know him safe, and die of joy,
Ere I have time to think upon the rest.
_Enter ELIZABETH, L., as if just risen. At the same
time, WILLIAM and the HOST, accompanied by a Guard,
pass by, from L. to U.E.R._
_Will._ This way, this way!
_Eliz._ Do you not hear the hollow bell still tolling?
Hark!
_Flor._ There is no sound now--
_Eliz._ If my father said
He should not die, it was to comfort me;
Do not believe them, if they tell you so.
Give me your arm unto the scaffold, girl.
[_Florence hesitates._]
Jealous?--Is this a time?--What!--
[_Two or three Attendants come in._]
Then I'll go
Alone-- [_She takes one of her Attendants by the arm._]
_Flor._ Nay, dear Elizabeth! his life
Is sav'd--
_Eliz._ Believe them not; wilt thou not come?
Nay, then! [_Exit with Ladies, U.E.R._]
_Flor._ What means her passion? He comes not!
My heart grows chill--
Would I might follow her.
I promis'd not. Did I not see the pardon.
O, this is dreadful!
_Re-enter BASIL, U.E.R._
_Distant shouting is heard._
_Basil._ Hear you there? He lives!
_Flor._ [_Falls on her knees._] O Heaven! I thank thy gracious mercy.
_Basil._ Now!
Remember thou art pledged to be my bride.
_Flor._ Have I then sav'd his life, to torture him
With base destruction of the thing he loves?
_Basil._ Give me thine hand.
_Flor._ No! no! There is a portal
By which the trembling victim may escape
From thy fierce tiger gripe--There is a way
Unto the weak, and though a giant grasp,
He shall but seize with eager cruel hand
The white reflection other fluttering robe,
Leaving her pure and undefil'd to Heaven--
Angels have whisper'd it to me--
_Basil._ Forsworn?--
_Flor._ Nay! traitor to thy God and king! My hand
I've pledg'd thee ere a short month have elaps'd,
And thou shalt claim it then, if then thou wilt.
_Basil._ What mean'st thou, maiden? There is a strange light
In the sweet lustre of thy thrilling eye,
There is a bright spot on thy velvet cheek;
Thy throat of arched fall is now thrown back,
As one had check'd a white Arabian steed;
Thy nostril wide dilates, Sibylline, grand;
Thy moist and crimson lip tempts wildly--come!
For thou art beautiful, and thy light step
Shall on the hills be glorious, when thou'rt given
A help-mate unto Israel--
_Flor._ Never!
_Basil._ How?--
Hast thou not sworn?
_Flor._ There is a point where all
That binds the struggling wretch to aught on earth,
Be it a bond of hate and grief like mine,
Or sweet communion of young hearts that love,
Be it a sacrifice to infamy, or pride
Of mothers in their offspring, or the work
Of master-spirits' high philosophy,
Doth rank with things that were--
_Basil._ Thou speakest riddles.
_Flor._ A colder hand than thine is on my heart,
I am another's bride! A month must pass
Ere thou can'st claim me. Was not that the bond?
_Basil._ In these brisk times, a month goes quickly by.
_Flor._ Within a week I'll wed, but not with thee.
Pray, sir, go hence, you do distract my thoughts
From my lov'd bridegroom.
_Basil._ Speak, whom mean'st thou?
_Flor._ Death.
A thousand deaths, ere wed with thee. Dost hear?
I am faint. Lo! thy cruel, eager gaze
Grows grimly dark and indistinct. Pray Heaven
I shall not see it any more. Farewell,
I pardon thee.
_Basil._ Not so! May curses blight me,
If I do lose thee thus. [_Seizes her._]
_Flor._ Help!
_Basil._ Wilt thou budge
Thus from thy promise?--Nay then--
_Flor._ Help! O help!
_Enter ARTHUR, Soldiers, WILLIAM, HOST, &c., U.E.R.
After them WYCKOFF, who stands at a little distance.
Loud cries of "Pardon, a free pardon from the Protector."_
_Basil._ What does this mean? Look to your prisoner: seize him.
_An Officer._ [_Seizing Basil._] In the Protector's name, we do!
_Basil._ Away!
Let go!
_An Officer._ [_Points to Arthur._] 'Twere best ask him for mercy. 'Tis
For him to say--
_Will._ Ay, ask us, ask me!--Hanging is too good
for you. You are found out, and [_points to the Host_]
'twas this blessed old fool that has undone you. Yes,
you may look, but your hair will not curl any
longer. Your plot is discovered. Noll knows all,
and will only spare your life on condition of the
colonies. [_During this time Florence and Arthur
are locked in each other's arms._] Look there!
There is happiness--there's fish-hooks and broken
glass bottles and tin-tacks in your gullet. Stomach
that. Tol de rol!
_Host._ While now they are here, I have a great
mind to charge that Wyckoff with my little bill!
_Basil._ O guilt, guilt, guilt!
Success ne'er lit yet on thy feeble brow,
But ever mock'd thee with dissembling leer,
Whilst at thy feet graves open, at thy heart
Remorse points daggers, and thou walk'st the world,
Blood on thine hand and fever in thine eye,
Friendless, by that thou lovest scorn'd the most.
_Arthur._ [_To Florence._] Thou wilt live now?
_Flor._ I would have died for thee,
Joy doth not kill! [_Points to BASIL._]
O, order them to free him;
He is thy brother, would have sav'd thee, though
For a base guerdon; yet he would have sav'd thee.
_An Officer._ We cannot free him!
_Basil._ [_Points to Wyckoff._] Why not take him too?--
He is guiltier than I am.--
_Wyck._ [_Aloud._] Traitor! O
Thou most pernicious traitor. [_Aside._] Damn him, coward!
He will tell all, unless I stop it thus.
[_Draws his sword._]
This for the Commonwealth! [_Stabs BASIL._]
_Basil._ O, I am kill'd!
Will ye see this?-- [_To Arthur._]
Revenge me, some of you!
[_Falls into the Soldiers arms and is borne off, U.E.R._]
_Officer._ [_Points to WYCKOFF._]
Seize him, ye have a warrant for his life.
The scaffold were defil'd. Unto the gallows!
[_WYCKOFF is borne off struggling._]
_Wyck._ 'Twas for the state! O mercy!
Arthur Walton!
He would have slain you! Mercy! mercy--
_Arth._ [_Supporting Florence._] Heaven!
How just and awful these thy punishments.
_Enter CROMWELL attended, L._
_Crom._ I did you wrong, yet eagerly excused
The death I thought you merited.
_Arth._ My Lord,
I owe no malice, and I wish you well,
As you shall deal with England, whose sad shores
I fain would quit awhile with her I love,
After these heavy griefs.
_Crom._ And you will leave me?
I would it were not so; for all around
I am hemm'd in by doubters. Perfidy
Makes mouths at me. Suspicion rears her head,
Hissing upon my path. And my friends drop off,
Leaving a sting behind!
Stay! Arthur Walton,
England doth bid thee stay!
_Arth._ I came here, when
A king did threaten England's liberties,
Her charter'd rights. He cannot threaten now.
His power has pass'd to others. I am not
Ambitious. If they use it well, 'tis well,
And I am needed not--
_Crom._ [_Crosses to R._] Farewell, then, Sir;
But not, I trust, for ever. Go, in peace,
Amid the voices of the nations hear and note
What they shall say of England and of Cromwell.
Farewell, sweet lady, pray for her and me.
[_To FLORENCE._]
Come, I have business, both of you, farewell!
[_Exeunt all, but WILLIAM and HOST._]
_Host._ Confess now, I have done well in discovering
these villanies.
_Will._ Ay, thou art an Eldorado of cunning.
_Host._ Herein you see the man of experience: I
did not rush to tell it all directly.
_Will._ No, indeed, thou didst not, and had I not
been there to extract the pearl of discovery from the
jaw-bone of ignorance with the forceps of discernment,
my Master by this time had been sped.
_Host._ Why, I was in the very nick of time. I am
older than thou art.
_Will._ Thy experience did ever squint, and the
obliquity of the mind grows worse with years. Yet
I grant thee, as it hath happened, thou hast been
equal to the occasion, which is true greatness, and
that thou art great no one who looks at thee can deny.
I am glad that Wyckoff hath at length paid his long
reckoning.
_Host._ But he hath not, he hath not!
_Will._ Did you not see them take him?--
_Host._ Tis all very well to jest, but I have often seen,
that when a poor man is defrauded, first there is no
justice whatsoever, and again, if there be any, it is
in this wise, that, while the wrong-doer suffers by the
Law, the Law swallows up the simple desired thing,
which is restitution. The Law takes the money, the
Law disposes of the chattels, and finally, Jack Ketch,
who is the Law's Ancient and most grim functionary,
lays claim to the clothes. There was more real
justice, friend Will, in the little finger of the Law
of Moses, than in the whole right arm and sword
of our boasted English trull, and you may throw
her scales and blind-man's-buff frippery into the
bargain.
_Will._ Stop, stop, thou art struck with an apoplexy
of sense. Wisdom peeps through both thine eyes, like
the unexpected apparition of a bed-ridden old woman
at a garret window. Thou art the very owl of Minerva,
and the little bill, that thou ever carriest with thee,
is given thee for this purpose, to peck at man's
frailty in the matter of repayment. Come, thou art
in danger. I must have thee bled.
_Host._ I tell thee I have bled, as much as e'er a
kettle-pated fellow of them all in these wars. I am
defunct of nearly all my substance.
_Will._ Substance? Why there is scarcely a doorway
thou canst pass through; and if one of Hell's
gate-posts be not put back a foot or two, thou wilt be
left, at thy latter end, like a huge undelivered parcel
in the lumber-room of Charon.
_Host._ I know not any carrier of that name, but 'tis
ill twitting a man, when he is in earnest, and did I
not love thee, and were this not a day of rejoicing,
thou shouldest drink no more out of mine own silver
flagon.
_Will._ Nay, I meant not to offend thee. Come,
we part soon. My master will pay thee thrice that
thou hast lost by this captain.
_Host._ Pish! I care not for ten times the money.
Thou understandest not the feelings of a tradesman.
_Will._ Come along, come along. The boat stays
under the bridge. Mistress Barbara is already on
board the ship, and swears that tar is the perfumery
of Satan. Come, I may never see thee again, and
although we shall not moisten our parting with tears,
it would scarcely, methinks, be appropriate that we
should say to each other "God be with you!" thirsting.
[_Exeunt._]
SCENE III.
[_Last Grooves._]
_Drawing-room at Whitehall, with practicable folding
doors and curtains, in the last Cut, 3rd Grooves.
A Nurse discovered in attendance. The Lady ELIZABETH
is lying on a Couch, surrounded by the Family of
CROMWELL. Her Sisters are kneeling around her._
_Eliz._ Leave me awhile; I shall be better soon.
I would but see my father; pray you seek him,
I wish to speak with him.
_Lady Crom._ Nay, my sweet child,
You must not be alone.
_Eliz._ Dear mother, pardon,
I shall be better.
_Nurse._ The physician said
She must not be denied the thing she asks.
_Lady Crom._ Well, then--but let me cover thee, my sweet,
The night is cold.
_Eliz._ No! no! I scarce can breathe.
_Lady Crom._ Indeed she mends, her eyes are brighter. Come.
[_They rise, and go out quietly._]
_Eliz._ [_Raising herself._] Unbare my beating bosom to the wind,
And let the breath of Heaven wander through
The dreary twilight of my tangled hair.
Mine eyes shall never sparkle any more,
Save with the fearful glitter of unrest;
My cheeks flush not with any hope on earth;
But with the live glow in their ash burn on.
Death holds his Carnival of winter roses
Till their last blossom drops within the grave.
Hush! what was that? I thought I heard a noise:
He comes, my father comes! Away all thought
Of self--Away, base passion, that would bind
My winged soul to earth,--hush! hush! he comes.
[_Pause._]
Twas but the night-wind's flagging breath! No sound
Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept
Tiptoe and carefully, 'twas like a murderer,
That in his sleep walks forth. See, how he threads his way
'Mid all the antique chattels of the room
Where it was none! Mark, where his careful feet
Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when
The grey rat courses o'er them! Nay, 'tis gone.
A shape of fancy's painting to the sight.
'Twas but the wind, I said--whose fleeting voice
The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud,
Mingling my name with tombs.
Again, I hear
It is his heavy footstep--
_Enter CROMWELL, L._
Father! here
Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick!
Lest Death step in between us--'
Reach me here
That cup. My voice fails--not that hand! 'tis blood,
[_He lets fall the cup._]
As in my dreams. I would assoil him. Father!
'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life
The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear
Thought guiding action in all human things,
Not in the busy, whirling masque of life,
Reality unreal, but in truth.
Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon's knife
Mocks the poor corpse. I saw not when he died:
Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black,
And one stood visor'd by, with glittering axe
Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form--
Methought the head of him that seem'd to die,
With ghastly face and painful, patient stare,
Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor,
As unseen fiends did pull it by its mass
Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn'd
Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman's mask
Had fallen to the ground--
Thou didst not do it?
For it was _thy_ face. Father, answer me! [_She
implores in a very earnest attitude, and gradually
falls back._]
_Crom._ [_Stands amazed at his daughter's action._]
I'll hear no more. 'Twas not my daughter spoke--
She's dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice
From yon pale tenement of clay. My hair's on end.
She said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug.
Avaunt! I meant well. [_Shouts are heard without._]
Hark! hear without
A Babel of hoarse demons clamouring loud
For Cromwell, the Protector!
[_His daughter points upward._]
No! not there.
I cannot follow thee. A Spirit stands,
Anointed, in the breach of Heaven's walls,
Behind him streams intolerable light,
His floating locks are crown'd--His look repels--
I was his murderer on earth--His gaze
Speaks pity; but not pardon--Let me rise,
There's mercy on his brow--I fall, I fall.
I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not:
His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight:
A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat.
They call'd me Cromwell when I liv'd on earth,
And said I slew a king. There is no air--
[_He sinks exhausted on a chair._]
_Enter PEARSON._
_Eliz._ [_To PEARSON._]
Pearson, thou lov'st him?
_Pear._ Madam, with a love
Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.
[_Looks at CROMWELL._]
The dark fit is upon him. I have found
'Tis best to leave him to himself;--
_Eliz._ No! no!
There is no time. My breath is short. O Pearson,
Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die.
Life will not turn my hour-glass any more,
Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast,
Ebb hollowly away. I would but speak
A few soft words of comfort, pray him to
Repent; there is repentance,--for his heart
Sinn'd not so deeply as the world may think.
_Crom._ [_Raising himself._] Who said repentance?
What's done, is done well.
I stand acquitted. Daughter, cheer thee, rise.
Thou shalt recover, my sweet darling. List!
It was the Lord reveal'd it to me.
_Eliz._ Cease!
Father, blaspheme no longer; with such words
Feed the wild fever of the enthusiast crew,
Pander to hypocrites; but not here, now,
Deceive thyself, or me--
[_During this Pearson has slowly withdrawn._]
_Crom._ This is not well;
As the Lord liveth, those poor lips, my child,
Speak foolishness. Who taught thee to rebuke
Thy father? Know, he stands 'twixt thee and God,
Not thou between the living God and him.
_Eliz._ What was that agony that tore thee now?--
Why didst thou swoon and talk of murder, kings,
Of hell and sulphur and the mocking fiends?
_Crom._ Must thou now learn that when my soul is dark
With sorrow, agitation, melancholy,
I am possess'd with black delirious fits?--
'Twas so ere thou wert born, ere I was call'd
Unto a burden heavier, than man
Unsuffering may bear; but, daughter, listen!
I am not guilty! if the human mind
May keep account with its own issuings forth
To act and do; if thought deceive us not,
And reason live in man. I am not guilty, if
The blind chimera of an earth-crown'd king
Be less than God's truth--not, if it be well
To love this people; to have drawn the sword
For mercy's sake alone. I am not guilty!
(O God! call back her eyes' fast fading light,
Lest she die judging me.) I am not guilty!
Except in loving thee too well. My lips
Shall speak no more at the eternal judgment
Than this--
_Eliz._ 'Tis truth! It cannot be but truth,
All things seem different, yet just now I thought
To see more clearly, whilst I dar'd to judge him--
How happy am I now--forgive me, oh!
My father!
_Crom._ It has been, that I have shrunk
From noble consciousness of the good work,
For love of thee--seeing thee pine and faint,
Deeming thy parent guilty of much blood,
And great deeds for the small base thought of self.
Thus, like the patriarch, I have cried aloud
Unto the Lord, rebelling thus against
His holy will. This is my darkest error.
_Eliz._ Now, let me comfort him and die in peace.
O father, 'tis another love that bends
This blighted form to earth.
_Crom._ Ha! What is this?
Thy husband!
_Eliz._ Fear not, I am pure in thought
And deed--yet I was married early,
Ere I had lov'd. I could not choose but love,
When I saw one--No matter--I am pure;
But death is welcome. Do not frown on me:
I ne'er had told thee, but for comfort's sake,
Lest thou shouldst think that thou hadst slain thy daughter.
_Crom._ Can this be true?
And she is dying thus!
Would I had known it sooner; ere, alas!
It was too late. Come, tell me everything.
[_He kneels down beside her._]
_Eliz._ Nay, let this thing go by; clasp me unto thee.
Forgive me all the pain that I have cost thee.
I feel as if I were again a child
That prattled by thy side, ere strife had come,
And sown those wrinkles in thy lofty brow;
'Bend till my faded fingers reach to smooth them!
I cannot think but of an evening walk,
When thou didst tell me of the life of David,
And how he dwelt with God--'twas on the bench
Round the oak tree in the fair pasturage,
[_Organ plays._]
Behind the church;--see, see, yon arched window
Is full of light. Hush! they are singing, hush!
The sun is cheerful! Nature praises God.
Leave me not yet, my father, spare one hour
Unto thy child. Nay, then, we shall meet soon.
Thou smil'st, sweet Spirit, all the rest grows dim!
See by yon pale and monumental form,
The old man kneeling, weeps. I come! I come!
[_Falls back and dies, her hands clasped in the
attitude of a recumbent marble effigy. During
the latter part, till the interruption, an organ
is heard playing solemn music._]
_Enter a Servant, L.; he makes a sign that some one is
coming. CROMWELL bows his head. Enter a PHYSICIAN,
LADY CROMWELL, and Sisters, L._
_Phy._ Doth she sleep?--
_Crom._ Ay, tread softly, for the ground
Is holy--
_Phy._ [_Addressing the body._] Lady!
_Crom._ He, she answereth,
Is there! [_Points above._]
_Lady Crom._ Dead! oh, Elizabeth!
_Crom._ Why griev'st thou, woman!
Rejoice with the angels rather.
Did I not hear
But now an organ?-- [_To the Physician._]
_Phy._ 'Twas, I think, my lord,
Your secretary, Milton.
_Crom._ Let him come here.
[_Exit PHYSICIAN, U.E.R. During this time, LADY
CROMWELL kneels by the body of her daughter, whilst
a curtain is drawn round the couch. The folding-doors
and curtains close all in as CROMWELL goes, L._]
_Enter an OFFICER and Officers in Naval Uniform
with Despatches, L._
_Offi._ These to your Highness!
_Crom._ [_Tearing them open._] C. From our admiral,
The gallant Blake. Another victory--
The Hollanders have yielded, that did late
Insult our English flag.
[_Shouting is heard without._]
_Milton._ [_Who has entered, U.E.R., unperceived._]
Most humble tenders
From France and Spain await your Excellency.
_Crom._ Ay! we will treat anon.
_Milton._ The Turks have yielded
The traitor Hyde--The Vaudois, sav'd, are blessing,
In their bright peaceful valleys, your great name,
First in their prayers to Heaven--
_An Usher._ Sir, there are messages
From various sects; the enfranchis'd Jews, and all
Whose burdens you have lighten'd, pray to see you.
_Crom._ Let all come in. I need all grateful hearts
Around me now.
_Enter an Officer with IRONSIDES, L._
_Offi._ [_Speaking softly._] My lord!
_Crom._ Speak out, I say!
Thou tear'st my heart-strings with thy whispering.
It is grown a habit here not wanted more.
Sir, I am childless. Speak your message out.
I have no heart now, save for England's glory.
_Offi._ My lord, will't please you to receive these letters?
Dunkirk is ceded to the English crown.
_Crom._ Crown, sirrah?
Where didst thou teach thy tongue that tinsel word?
Go, mend thy speech, although thou bear'st good tidings.
_He walks to and fro._
Had she but liv'd to hear this. Yet, O God,
Thy will be done!
[_To an officer._]
Now let the cannon speak,
And trumpets tell this news unto the nation.
[_Flourish of trumpets and cannon behind the scenes._]
'Tis well! I'll make the name of England sound
As great, as glorious, with as full an echo,
As ever that of Rome in olden time.
By distant shores, in every creek and sea,
Her fleets shall lend proud shadows to the waters,
While their loud salvos silence hostile forts
With luxury of daring. Englishmen
Shall carry welcome with their wanderings.
Her name shall be the world's great watchword, fram'd
To make far tyrants tremble, slaves, rejoicing,
Unlock their lean arms from their hollow breasts,
And good men challenge holy brotherhood,
Where'er that word of pride is heard around.
For this the shallow name of king be lost
In the majestic freedom of the age.
'Tis slaves have need of trappings for their lords.
By Heaven, I say, a score of kings, each back'd
By his mean date of twenty rotted sires,
Could do no more than this. I will be more
Than all these weak and hireling Stuarts. This
Let Time and England judge, as years roll on.
[_Flourish as the curtain falls._]
*This is a line interpolated, in my last revision of
the passage, from Shelley's "Revolt of Islam." It was
pointed out to me by a friend, who thought it would give
force and clearness to the contest. The noble stanzas
on America, from which it is taken, will be found in
Ascham's edition of "Shelley's Poems," page 147,
commencing with
"There is a people mighty in its youth."