Cromwell Part 23

_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 gra.s.s 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 const.i.tuted 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 sh.o.r.e--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.

G.o.d 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 gra.s.s-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.

ACT V.

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 gra.s.s, 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--