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_2nd Poach._ I heard it too.
_1st Poach._ 'Twas a cricket, or some such fowl.
_3rd Poach._ There's some one near. Look sharp!
_4th Poach._ Let's beat about-- [_Loudly_] As for the girl, I saw her brought in. 'Twas a piteous sight--A love business, mark ye! I did not find her. [_They discover ARTHUR._]
_1st Poach._ Ha!
_4th Poach._ Silence him!
_3rd Poach._ Curse thee, what brings thee here?--
_Arth._ Offhands! ye know me not. [_To 4th POACHER._]
Thou murderous dog!
Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?--
[_4th POACHER staggers back._]
_4th Poach._ Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy; he will tell of ye all.
[_ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him._]
[_Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E._]
_Crom._ Who be these knaves? What, murder!
Ha! then strike: Down with the sons of Belial!
[_Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly._]
The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [_To ARTHUR._]
Another moment, and thy soul had fled-- Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so, And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus, That no one falls or lives, unless the G.o.d Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust Thou art of the good work.
[_Enter WILLIAM, R._]
_Will._ My master b.l.o.o.d.y?-- A dead man on the ground!--a knight of the road by his looks-- [_Sees CROMWELL._]
What a grim stranger!
_Crom._ Sirrah! move That carrion. [_WILLIAM going up to his Master._]
_Will._ Sir! I wait on this gentleman.
What a look! [_Aside._] I am sure he is either the devil, or some great Christian. [_Aloud._] I will, my Lord! [_Moves the body._] Come along! To think now this dead, two-legged thing should have been active enough just now to catch a four-footed live deer. No sooner does a man die, but you would think he had swallowed the lead of his coffin. Come along! Lord! how helpless it is! Why, he shall no more kick at his petty devouring, no, no more than if he were a dead king! [_Exit with body, U.E.L._]
_Crom._ Ha! 'Tis well said.
Would that this blood had not been shed.
'Tis dreadful To send a soul destroy'd to plead against The frail destroyer. Yet I could not help it.
[_TO ARTHUR._]
How farest thou now?
_Arth._ Good sir, I thank you for My life so promptly sav'd--not courtesy, But breath did fall me.
_Crom._ 'Tis a fearful thing That I have done. A life! I might have struck Less fiercely. G.o.d forgive me for the deed.
[_To Arthur._] Would he have slain thee?
_Arth._ 'Twas a murderer Most double-dyed in blood. I heard them speak His guilt.--
_Crom._ O, I could weep! and yet his death Had the best reason for't.
Whence comest thou, sir?
_Arth._ I am but late returned unto this land.
[_Re-enter WILLIAM._]
_Will._ Yes! yes, from Italy, Rome, gracious sir!
Us'd to these things, you see--
_Crom._ Peace, knave, thou scoffest!
Revilest thou; because a fellow-sinner's dead?
Shame be upon thee!
_Will._ [_Aside._] If I should be impertinent to him, 'twill be behind his back. He hath a quelling eye; although a man fear not. Now, amidst other brave men with swords, he would be as one that carried sword, and petronel to boot.
_Crom._ [_To Arthur._] I fain would hear from thee, young sir, More of the land from whence thou comest. 'Tis My hap, I thank G.o.d's holy will, to stay In this my country, lifting now her head From the curst yoke of proud Idolatry, Lately so vexing her, I thought to leave, A little while ago, her sh.o.r.es for ever, Unto the new Jerusalem, beyond The western ocean, where there are no kings, False wors.h.i.+p, or oppression--but, no more.
What say'st thou of this Italy? John Milton Loves well to speak romantic lore of Rome-- A poet, though a great and burning light.
I would have knowledge of it to confound him; A sober joke, a piece of harmless mirth.
What think'st thou then of Rome where Brutus liv'd?
_Arth._ 'Tis the decay of a once splendid harlot, Painting her ruin, that the enthusiast eye Lives on the recollection still, and thus The alms of pa.s.sers by still meet her cravings.
She stands, her scarr'd proud features mock'd with rags, Fixt at the end of a great thoroughfare, With shrill gesticulation, fawning ways, Clinging unto the traveller to sustain Her living foul decay, and death in life, She is the ghoul of cities; for she feeds Upon the corpse of her own buried greatness.
_Crom._ Doubtless thou hast seen much to fill thy mind With such disgust.
_Arth._ Good, sir! I did scarce feel it, Till I return'd.
_Will._ Nay, sir! I do remember as we stood in the mouldy big Circus, having sundry of the lousy population idling within, whereby I did then liken it to a venerable cheese, in which is some faint stir of maggotry, that thou didst make a memorable speech against the land, where the only vocation of a n.o.bleman is to defile the streets and be pimp to his own wife.
_Arth._ Cease, cease, yet there is truth in what he says.
_Crom._ Yet are there not amends in poetry, Art, science, and a thousand delicate thoughts Glowing on canva.s.s, chisell'd in cold forms, The marbled dreams of sculptor's cla.s.sic brain?
Milton hath told of these.
_Arth._ Alas! 'tis but Corruption's gilding. 'Tis the trick of vice Full oft to pander in a graceful form; But when the finer chords of hearts are set In eyes glued to a dancer's feet, or ears Strain'd to the rapture of a squeaking fiddle, Think you 'tis well? Oh, say, should Englishmen Arrive at this, such price to set on art, Ne'er rivalling the untaught nightingale, That with their ears shut to wild misery, Deaf to starvation's groans, the prayer of want, The giant moan of hunger o'er the land, Till the sky darken with the face of angels, G.o.d's smiling ministers, averted--then!
To buy a male soprano they should give His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames Might have their senses tickled with the trills Evolv'd from a soft, tumid, warbling throat-- Why then farewell to England and her glory!
_Crom._ Methinks the end of all things should be near, When that doth happen!
_Arth._ Did I hear aright That Milton was thy friend?
_Crom._ Yea! with the saints, That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven To set this nation free. He is my friend, And England's.
