Cromwell Part 24

_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 d.a.m.ned to h.e.l.l 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, l.u.s.t: The pa.s.sions that we have in us may blend With n.o.ble 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 h.e.l.l 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 m.u.f.fled bell, Within my ribs, its tomb; my flesh creep like The p.r.i.c.kly 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 n.o.ble 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._]