Cromwell by Alfred B. Richards

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'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--

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