_Crom._ Good Milton, I am sick at heart. Think you the world Will judge me very harshly?--

_Mil._ Sir, believe By far the n.o.bler 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 gla.s.s 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 l.u.s.t'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 Pa.s.sion'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 pa.s.sion, 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 sh.o.r.es 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 G.o.d and to His will, That I perchance too rashly made mine own, And n.o.ble 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 t.i.tan, 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 enn.o.bling 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 l.u.s.tre, holier radiance.

_Crom._ Speak on, the pa.s.sion pa.s.ses. 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.