Cromwell Part 22

_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 s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 pa.s.s'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 wors.h.i.+p to the G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+nes 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 n.o.ble 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.