SCENE III.
[Last Cut.] [3rd Grooves.]
View of Westminster Abbey. Sunset.
Enter three or four Citizens, meeting severally.
1st Cit. The skies weep not, there is no shock to the earth.
Art thou not Peter Ingram? Yet the king
Hath been beheaded, lost his head!
The king
Of England murther'd, slain in open day!
2nd Cit. I did not think they would do it— Who'll be king Now he is dead?
3rd Cit. Why some say none.
4th Cit. Indeed, The Parliament is king.
2nd Cit. They say that Cromwell Had much to do in this. Were you there?
1st Cit. No.
Others. Nor I.
2nd Cit. Here comes another. We shall hear, If he hath seen.
Enter another Citizen.
5th Cit. Oh, eyes! Oh, ears! Alas!
1st Cit. Were you there?
5th Cit. Was I not? He died right well, As 'twere a man that nothing had to lose, Save the poor head he gave his enemies.
1st Cit. Indeed you're right, he had not much of late.
2nd Cit. How was it?
5th Cit. Well, they would not let him speak
Much, for the sound of the drums—are ye this way?
My wife is waiting, she is curious; come,
I'll tell you all I saw— [Exeunt severally.]
Enter two Gentlemen, R. and L.
1st Gent., L. All, then, is o'er: the body they have taken To lie in Whitehall—
2nd Gent., R. So I heard. Where are The men who order'd it?
1st Gent. I know not. Cromwell Was there; I noted him.
2nd Gent. How looked he when The king came forth? I had no eyes for aught Except the prisoner.
1st Gent. It so happen'd that, Marking his face by chance, I could not keep My eyes from off him.
2nd Gent. Ay, how did he seem? For he had much to do in this great matter.
1st Gent. Ere all was ready, while 'mid wolfish noise
The patient pale king lipp'd the deafen'd air,
O'er Cromwell's face approaching doom grew large
In stony horror. Then 'twas calm and fix'd.
Destruction's god, from his broad, wizard throne,
Might on the front of coming whirlwinds, as
They near'd his footstool, look unchang'd as he did:
Sphinx-like!
But, when the deed was done,
The flash that left the swift-descending axe
In triumph fiercely shot into his eyes,
A moment welling quick successive fires,
Like sudden birth of stars 'tween wintry clouds:
Then came a look of doubt and wonderment,
As if it were a thing he knew not of,
And shudder'd at, amaz'd that it was so.
His hollow eye wan'd like the moon's eclipse;
And then he clutch'd his sword, and strove to read
Men's faces near him, and so, furious, leapt
On his black war-horse, standing saddled by,
And unattended, save by that red scene,
Like an arm'd pestilence, rode swift—away!
2nd Gent. You make me tremble with your picture; surely This Cromwell is a great and wondrous man.
1st Gent. Unto all fortune doth he shape himself; One knows not where he learnt it.
2nd Gent. They do say A something did appear to him in youth, Telling he should be great.
1st Gent. I think he hath Whisper'd that round to choke the envious With supernatural awe.
2nd Gent. I know not; but He hath great power with the army, gain'd By most corporeal acts.
1st Gent. Shall you attend The funeral?
2nd Gent. It were not wise, I think; There will be riots. It grows dark. Good evening!
[They part, 1st Gent. R., 2nd Gent. L., Exeunt.]
The stage grows dark. Enter a Drunken Preacher with a Rabble of Soldiers, Artisans, and Women, U.E.L. and R.
Preach. So, my beloved, this Ahab has lost his head, as it might be the froth of thin ale. I am thirsty in the flesh! Will no man be a surety for a poor preacher of the Lord at the sign of Balaam's Ass? 'Tis hard by; and I would speak a few more words of grace on this soul-stirring occasion, but my tongue is parched. Ho! every one that thirsteth, come unto me,—or I will go with you.
A Soldier. Hold thy peace; for I would fain speak. This is a great day in Israel.
Preach. Hear me, my brethren! This is a false prophet.
Sold. Smite him!
Woman. Nay, touch him an' you dare. [To the Soldier.] 'Tis Master Ephraim Bumling. I would thy head were chopped off, like the sour-faced king's this morning.
1st Art. Down with all kings!
2nd Art. No taxes!
3rd Art. We'll all be kings!
4th Art. With our heads on, though.
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 ships 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 shines 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 pass'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 worship to the God 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 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.]