Eliz. O father, hold! And pardon me for my distracted thought. Thou knowest best, and I am wrong indeed: I did but pine to see thee more with us, To see thee happier—

Crom. My child, my child! Mercy shall look with eyes like thine on me Though justice frown beside. [Takes her hand.] Look up, my child! Ask what thou wilt except our country's shame.

[Cromwell hands Elizabeth off, R., and remains looking after her.]

Enter, R.D.U.E., MILTON, IRETON, BRADSHAW, MARTEN, HARRISON (who brings a saddle and places it upon the table), LILBURNE, ARTHUR WALTON, LUDLOW. Enter, L., Sir HARRY VANE, HACKER, same time.

Brad. [A letter in his hand. To VANE and HACKER, who have just entered.] So, gentlemen—Had you been here just now, you would have heard at length, this precious information, which our worthy General Cromwell, and Ireton here, have laid before us. A letter to the Queen, and secret intercourse with France—a rare betrayal, and richly worded too. 'Tis well we have friends at court, ere now it had been at Dover.

Vane. I thought he did stand pledged to all we ask'd.

Har. The royal Judas! [Cromwell comes forward.]

Crom. O sirs! It is but A king's prerogative to break his faith. We are not fitting judges of this thing.

Har. But we will judge. I say, whose dogs are we!

Crom. Peace, Harrison. Thou naughty traitor! Peace.

Ireton. Away with all, save vengeance on the deed.

Brad. [After placing the letter in the saddle.] There! in that greasy, patch'd and reeking leather, Lies a king's royal word, a Stuart's honour, The faith of Charles, his most majestic pledge Broken, defil'd, dishonour'd evermore.

Har. Why cry ye not, "God save our righteous King"?

Crom. Through me, he did proclaim, he would accept Our army's terms. Alas! had we been cozen'd, I, that believed his false tongue, had betray'd The hope of Israel—-

Vane. It is true, indeed, He is the slave of his pernicious Queen.

Mar. I say the King of England henceforth is An alien in blood, a bitter traitor— What doth he merit of us?

Ireton. This! 'Tis right That one man die for all, and that the nation For one man perish not—

Crom. Ho! what? son Ireton.

Vane. Alas! indeed he merits not to live.

Brad. What say ye?

Ireton. Death!

Mar. Har. Lilb. Lud. Hacker. [Severally.] Death! Death!

Brad. I think, Sir Harry, You said, "not live," the others all say, "Death," Why then we are agreed— Stay! General Cromwell, There was no word from you—

Crom. I thought to save My breath; ye were so eager.

Arth. Hold, a moment. I do desire your ears—

Crom. Our ears? Your years Should teach you silence, sir! before your elders, Till they have said— We would hear Master Milton: He hath to speak. [To Milton.] What think you of the man, The king, that arm'd the red, apostate herd In Ireland against our English throats? Was it well done; deserves it that we crouch?

Mil. Oh, it was base, degrading and unhappy, To make God's different worship, damning means Of an unholy war between his people; To be the beggar of his people's blood, To set that crown upon his false, weak brow, His pale, insolvent, moat dishonour'd brow, From which, too wide, it slipp'd into the mire, To fit him ne'er again.—

Crom. A right good figure! Who'll pluck the crown from out this royal mire?

Mar. They say his queen, our foreign, English queen, Doth ofttimes antler him; perchance 'tis reason Why his crown fits him not.

Mil. Oh, it was base To use such means to gain such selfish end! So I have heard, There have been men, in such a hapless clime, As this poor Ireland, unctuous, wordy men, With slug-like skins, and smiling, cheerful faces, That, with their pamper'd families, grew fat, By bleeding Famine's well-nigh bloodless frame; Lessening the pauper's bitter, scanty bread, Season'd with salt tears; shredding finer still The blanket huddled to the stone-cold heart Of the wild, bigot, ghastly, dying wretch.— Thus, for a devilish and unnatural gain, Mowing the lean grass of a Golgotha! Sitting, like grinning Death, to clutch the toll Tortur'd from poverty, disease and crime; And this with Liberty upon their lips, Bland words, and specious, vulgar eloquence, And large oaths, with the tongue thrust in the cheek, And promises, as if they were as gods, And no God held the forked bolt above! Turning all ignorance, disaffection, hatred, Religion, and the peasant's moody want, To glut themselves with hard-wrung copper coins, Verjuic'd with hot tears, thin and watery blood; Brazening the conscious lie unto the world That it was done for hallowing Freedom's sake, Until the names of "Freedom," "Patriot," stank, Blown on and poison'd by these beggar lips; That men had need to coin fresh words to mean The holy things with stale use so defil'd.

Arth. But Charles hath not done this! Our poet friend, Full of the knowledge of all times, hath painted A picture all in vain.

Vane. But he hath done A mischief similar—I see the point— Hath he not arm'd the bigot, ghastly wretch, To stab our English lives? hath he not sown A crop of wild sedition, discord, hate, Using the vain creed of the rabble herd To wage this war against us?

Ire. Hath he not Tamper'd with France, our curst fantastic foe, And natural enemy?

Brad. Did he not first Unfurl his bloody standard to the winds At Nottingham, since when peace hath not smil'd On all this tortur'd land?

Har. And are we not, The servants of the Lord, betray'd, despis'd, Insulted, wrong'd, by this false Ahab?—Come, Let him stand forth before his peers—the people, And die the death!— Cromwell, what sayest thou? Why dost thou lack speech?

Crom. I am mute to think Of what ye all say—words—ye dare not do it— I say ye dare not, though ye were to die Not doing, what your gross and eager speech Makes easier than to cough, or spit, or cry "God save the King;"—but ere your thought hath fled A rood, a yard into the empty air, Dissolv'd is your high counsel, and Dismay Whips all the noble blood that fir'd your cheeks To the pale mantle of a creamy fear. Fie! fie! ye dare not do it—nay, son Ireton, What, Harrison so boisterous? keep your frowns To look upon his trial, since 'tis so—

[Pointing to IRETON.]

Now hath he not a traitorous brow like his, Perchance, that did stab Caesar? those were days When men did e'en as much as they dar'd hint at.

Har. I said not stab, but bring him to the block: Let God's eye be upon the multitude, Theirs on the scaffold, the attesting sun Shine on the bare axe and th' uncover'd head. It is no coward act, lest he might sin; For he hath sinn'd, until our very dreams Bid England's tyrant die.

Arth. Oh, hear me yet: I had not join'd you, save I thought he sinn'd; I had not counselled, fought with you like brothers, But that I deem'd your cause was just, and honour'd Of good men and of God—I had not given My childish prejudice and old belief To carry arms against my country's king, But for the sake of mercy and of justice, And here I take my stand.

Crom. Why then stand there, till we come back again. 'Tis time to part—Come, Ludlow!

Arth. Hath he not Virtues that might rebuke us all?—ay, virtues More excellent in him than all his subjects, since All Sin doth aim at Kings, to be her own. 'Tis hard for princes to outshine in worth The meanest wretch that from his road-side hovel Shouts forth with hungry voice, "Long live the King!"

Crom. O wise and excellent argument, that There should be no more kings. Why spoil a man That hath a soul, a precious soul, to lose, To make a king that cannot help but sin? Let there be no more kings.

Arth. Then kill not Charles, For Charles the Second, reigns in England then.

Crom. Hum, perchance—

Arth. He hath done us no offence, Ye would not slay him, if ye had him here. I tell ye, banish Charles, this present man, And none shall question, whilst his feeble race And name shall dwindle hence, as shall arise The fair proportions of our Commonwealth On the decay of kings, not on the death Of one weak monarch.— What! doth any here Wish that himself be king?

Crom. He raves!

Vane. Nay! listen! He hath much reason.

Crom. [Throws a cushion at Ludlow.] Ho! there regicide! Have at thee! [Confusion.]

Arth. [ Vainly attempts to speak.] Gentlemen, I say then—Hear!

[MILTON and others commence leaving. LUDLOW pursues CROMWELL, who finally runs down stairs, pursued by the former.]

Arth. [To Milton.] Nay! nay! my friend.

Milt. Another time. This is not seemly.

Har. Surely, doth the Lord Need us elsewhere. Who holdeth forth below?

[They all go but Arthur.]

Re-enter CROMWELL from the stairs.

Crom. I do protest that I am out of breath— Yet I commend thy reasoning.

Arth. But, my Lord.—

Crom. That rascal, Ludlow!

Arth. Will the trial be?

Crom. 'Twould justify us much.

Arth. But if he die—

Crom. [In a hurried tone and walking off.] It is not thy affair, or mine—Why now— Let's talk anon, I'm tir'd. Hast thou seen My daughter Frances?—fares she well to-day? Give me thine arm—I do admire thy reasons. You see, these angry fanatics boil over; 'Twill simmer down anon—The king must live. And yet he hath done much—wrought evil work, And so—

[Exeunt. CROMWELL leaning on his arm and talking rapidly.]

END OF ACT III.



ACT IV

SCENE I.

[2nd Grooves.]

GURTON'S Ale House.

Host and Guests.

Host. So they say the king is to die. Well, his head hath swung at my door many a year, and I cannot say but that there was custom. Good day to you, Master Gilead Stubbs, you have a good mile to walk. Shall the boy go with you?

Mast. Stubbs. Nay! nay! I thank you, I will with Master Jesson here. You have lost the Captain. Where is he?—

Host. What, that Wyckoff? Gone, and his score left unpaid. Moreover, I think 'twas he that hid my keys.

A Guest. Ah! how was it?

Host. I have never lost them before. It was in my secret place, and yon Wyckoff had to do with it. He was drunk the morning I missed them without being served. I am glad he is gone.

Guests. Good day, Master Newborn, good day.

Host. The Lord be with ye; [Exeunt Guests.] and make sound vessels of ye! [Aside.] for the holding of good liquor. This is the best company I have had for long. How restless I feel. I cannot help thinking of my dream, that Wyckoff and the other would have slain me, and 'twas in this very room. Let me see, I dreamt too they hid something—this plank seems loose. I could fancy now this were the fag-end of my dream—[Lifts the Plank.] What is here?—As I live, my keys, and a bundle of papers.— [Reads.] "To Master Arthur Walton?" Why, he hath not been here, for long. If now it 'twere Basil his brother and the Captain had left them here—from Sir Marmaduke Langdale too. Here is something wrong. I feel choked. Let me put them back. Why now, I could swear I had seen them placed there. It is very odd. And to think of my keys too. I could fancy they were only skeletons. Yet I know their jingle well. I'll to my brewer now, and, as there is no one here, I say [looks round] God keep the poor king's head on his shoulders, and may it be long ere he die on his bier! [Exit, R.]



SCENE II.

[1st Cut.] [3rd Grooves.]

An Apartment in Hampton Court. The LADY ELIZABETH reading. In an inner chamber are ARTHUR and FLORENCE. Practicable door 2nd E.R.

[ARTHUR is heard singing to a lute in the adjoining chamber.]

SONG

When thy lover, dear, is nigh thee, Look not on the world around, In his eyes be thy blue vision, In his eyes thy vision bound— For thou'lt find all Heaven, I swear, By thy gaze reflected there!

In thy ripe lips is his summer, Autumn in thy braided hair; Jealous is he of spring's snow-drops Stolen from thy neck's warm care; But the winter of his mind Is when thou, love, art unkind: In thee rounded, thus, his year, Joy, doubt, sweet content, and fear.

Eliz. [Throwing down the book.] The black print seems all red—I cannot read!

[Points to the inner room.]

Mine eyes burn so—And they are happy there Together—'twas my work—and now I wish That seas convuls'd by tempests were between them; And an eternal veil of blackness girded The one from the other—each in separate light, But still apart! apart! O horror, why Doth their communion cast such hopeless gloom Upon me, more than all a father's guilt, A sovereign's woe?—O daughter of a traitor! Traitoress! Thou lovest him thy friend doth love, And—he loves her! ay, that is it, he loves her.

[Laughs hysterically.]

I am a wedded wife. There is no stain Of guilty wish. I ne'er thought to be his: No! no! False wretch, thou dost this moment. Hold, 'Tis past! Oh! would that I were far remov'd, Not seeing, hearing, knowing all their lore, Not feeling their young blest affection jar Through every fibre—thus! This is the day The king's fate is decided—If he die Arthur will hate us, hate my father, me, The regicide's pale daughter—thus to think Of the king's life! that was my only prayer Before; and now it fades on my cold lips, And startles me to hear it! [MUSIC is heard within.] O my heart! It seems as though a thousand daggers' points Would not suffice to stab it, so it might Feel some release— [Falls on her knees.] My God! forsake me not!

As the music ends, enter the LADY CROMWELL; she approaches her daughter, and, bending over her, lifts her up.

Lady Crom. What is it, child?—I have now heard from Fairfax: He saith it will not be—Thy father is But stern unto the last— He'll pray to God And God will aid him—

Eliz. But His judgments, mother! Are awful. Did not Christ condemn the mind That is polluted with a guilty thought, As if 'twere done?

Lady Crom. This weary thought of hers About the king hath turn'd her brain. Dear daughter, Rouse thee, he will not die!

Enter a Messenger, others of the family, the LADY FAIRFAX in deep mourning.

Lady Fairf. The king is sentenced. Death! [Bell tolls.]

ELIZABETH, raising herself, falls back into her Mother's arms with a sudden scream. They carry her back.

Enter ARTHUR and FLORENCE.

Arth. Then, madam, let us part—'tis better.

Flor. Yes, I think so, sir.

Arth. I cannot brook this treatment—

Flor. I do not wish you—

Arth. Heartless!

Flor. Certainly, A heart is troublesome; it oft makes fools Of those that own it— I should hate a man Made me ridiculous.

Arth. Farewell!

Flor. Farewell!

[FLORENCE runs to the LADY ELIZABETH.]

Arth. [Joining the group.] What is the matter?

One of the Domestics. Sir, the king is sentenc'd To death; it is too much for her—

Arth. Alas! Is it even so?—

Flor. [To Arthur.] Arthur! here, lend your aid To bear her hence—Elizabeth! 'Tis Florence—

[He attempts to raise her.]

Eliz. I tell you I can stand— His arm? [Aside.] Away! [Aloud.] Sir, do not touch me, you ill-treat my friend!

Flor. To think she heard, my folly— Sir, I fancy [To Arthur.] She will be better, if you are not here—

[He bows and is about to retire.]

Enter CROMWELL and PEARSON followed by two or three officers.

Crom. Where be ye all?— [To an Officer.] These to your Colonel Pride— [Exit officer, L.] And thou to Rich; tell him to watch and fast, [To another.] For I have need of him—[Exit officer, L.] What coil is this?—[To his Family.] My daughter ill! send a physician, quick: Pearson, look to it— I am ill myself. 'Twas a sore trial, ye have heard of it— The man must die—

Eliz. No! father, as you hope For mercy, no!

Crom. Peace, simpleton. It was The voice of all this people.

Arth. General, hear me: Thou hadst the power to save—

Crom. Ay! Master Walton, Thou thinkest so?—

Arth. I do!—

Crom. And dar'st to speak it?

Arth. Dare! General Cromwell! [Takes off his sword.] Here, look, is my sword, I'll never more bear arms with thee or thine.

Crom. I do protest thou wilt not— Take his sword; [To an Officer.] I did not think to find this kite so tame. Good, honest Master Walton, tell me now What news from Langley, virtuous Master Walton? Nay, never look with that blank wonderment, Friend Arthur Walton— [ARTH. attempts to speak.] Tush, sir, not a word— As the Lord liveth, thou shalt die the death— Take him away. I hate his open brow More than a dozen dark-fac'd royalists In arms against us.

Arth. What doth this mean?— Frenzy Hath surely seized him—

Crom. No! the sense To know thee, hypocrite!

Flor. O Arthur! Arthur! What has he done? [Rushes to his arms.] Forgive me, dearest Arthur! Sir, he's not guilty— [To Cromwell.]

Crom. Silence, woman! Take him Away!

Eliz. My veins thrill! Parted?—No! No! No! Perish the mean thought— Let me aid them, though I die; then o'er my quiet grave, my thought Doth sculpture them in prayer— [To Cromwell.] He is innocent, My father! Let him go—Do you not see They love each other?—

Crom. Art thou not ashamed? Thou wanton girl!

Arth. My Florence! I am happy Since thou dost love me. I know nought of that With which he charges me—

Flor. I know thou dost not: Thou shalt not die! O man of blood, beware! [To Cromwell.] If thou'rt deceived, repentance comes too late. Is that a traitor's look! Thou canst not quell it Back'd by an army. Thou hast bitter moments E'en now. The king—

Crom. I'll hear no more—remove him. [A pause.] Yet I will give three days, if in that time Ye prove him innocent, 'tis well—If not, He dies the death!

[ARTHUR is seized; ELIZABETH clings to her Father, who looks on her with an expression of anger, which gradually softens into affection. Exeunt, on the one side, ARTHUR, L. with his Guards, on the other, CROMWELL, with his Family, &c., R.]

Enter WILLIAM and HOST, U.E.R.

Will. Come on, I tell thee they are all gone. Have I not liberty here?

Host. Hem! Did'st thou notice how that young imp of a page flouted thee, when thou did'st civilly inquire the hour of the day? Thou wert welcome as a wet Sunday to his new feather. I doubt whether I myself will continue to know thee.

Will. Is there no way to save him? If now it were the marriage of his heart something might occur; but I never yet heard of an accident on the road to a gallows.

Host. Cheer up! cheer up! we must all die, young and old. I have had my trials. In these wars I have known very estimable men die that owed me money. There is your true trial now.

Will. If he had been slain on the right side, and died comely with a love-lock as a gentleman should. But to perish by the false canting rebel that he served. He a traitor! My master! The innocentest youth alive. Why even I, that have some claim, could not find it in my heart to cheat him. It would have been an insult to my understanding to impose upon him that had no suspicions, and would leave out his doublet in the morning to be cleaned unemptied, when he had won uncounted pieces of gold at night—Alas! Alas!

Host. Come along, thou mayest as well drink; for weeping will not mend thee. Besides, I have something to tell thee about him and his brother Basil, and one Wyckoff, that hath left his score unpaid; but I cannot remember it just now.

[He takes him by the arm and leads him out, L.]

Enter BASIL, WALTON, and FLORENCE, R.

Basil. He is my half-brother, it is true; but shall he betray the true cause for that? Shall our consanguinity make me so weak?

Flor. Oh, Basil! you have said that you can save him— Save him that lov'd you well, that gave you all That was his own—

Bas. May curses light on him! Why should his sneaking face thus cross my love?

Flor. In Heaven alone I put my trust to save him; Profane my sight no longer, sir. Away!

Bas. You are right—Let him die—Tis I am wrong To save a traitor thus, a damned traitor—

Flor. Blasphemer, silence!

Bas. Oh, a traitor's death! 'Tis none so envious—but as I'm his brother, I thought to save our name from this foul blot.

Flor. Oh, agony!

Bas. 'Tis true his life Is nothing, and 'tis forfeit—but his name Dishonour'd, tainted—

Flor. Hold, hold! Let me think. Have mercy! No? [Aside.] Then let me die for him, For thus I could not live. [Aloud.] I will be yours, But not yet—

Bas. O, I'll give a month. I am A courteous wooer—then, perchance your love May date, ere we are married—'Tis well so—

[Attempts to take her by the hand.]

Flor. I pray you, leave me now—

Bas. You swear then—

Flor. Yes!

Bas. By all that's holy?

Flor. Sir! it is enough, I have said that if you claim me in a month, I will be yours, if living—go! now, go!

Bas. Remember that his life alone I promise—

Flor. His life, his life! O God! Quick, save his life—

[He takes her hand, which he kisses; she withdraws it with an expression of pain. Exeunt, FLORENCE, L., BASIL, R.]



SCENE III.

[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.]



SCENE IV.

[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.



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 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."

THE END