SCENE III.
[Last Grooves.]
Drawing-room at Whitehall, with practicable folding doors and curtains, in the last Cut, 3rd Grooves. A Nurse discovered in attendance. The Lady ELIZABETH is lying on a Couch, surrounded by the Family of CROMWELL. Her Sisters are kneeling around her.
Eliz. Leave me awhile; I shall be better soon. I would but see my father; pray you seek him, I wish to speak with him.
Lady Crom. Nay, my sweet child, You must not be alone.
Eliz. Dear mother, pardon, I shall be better.
Nurse. The physician said She must not be denied the thing she asks.
Lady Crom. Well, then—but let me cover thee, my sweet, The night is cold.
Eliz. No! no! I scarce can breathe.
Lady Crom. Indeed she mends, her eyes are brighter. Come.
[They rise, and go out quietly.]
Eliz. [Raising herself.] Unbare my beating bosom to the wind,
And let the breath of Heaven wander through
The dreary twilight of my tangled hair.
Mine eyes shall never sparkle any more,
Save with the fearful glitter of unrest;
My cheeks flush not with any hope on earth;
But with the live glow in their ash burn on.
Death holds his Carnival of winter roses
Till their last blossom drops within the grave.
Hush! what was that? I thought I heard a noise:
He comes, my father comes! Away all thought
Of self—Away, base passion, that would bind
My winged soul to earth,—hush! hush! he comes.
[Pause.]
Twas but the night-wind's flagging breath! No sound
Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept
Tiptoe and carefully, 'twas like a murderer,
That in his sleep walks forth. See, how he threads his way
'Mid all the antique chattels of the room
Where it was none! Mark, where his careful feet
Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when
The grey rat courses o'er them! Nay, 'tis gone.
A shape of fancy's painting to the sight.
'Twas but the wind, I said—whose fleeting voice
The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud,
Mingling my name with tombs.
Again, I hear
It is his heavy footstep—
Enter CROMWELL, L.
Father! here
Come close and press me warmly to thee, quick!
Lest Death step in between us—'
Reach me here
That cup. My voice fails—not that hand! 'tis blood,
[He lets fall the cup.]
As in my dreams. I would assoil him. Father!
'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life
The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear
Thought guiding action in all human things,
Not in the busy, whirling masque of life,
Reality unreal, but in truth.
Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon's knife
Mocks the poor corpse. I saw not when he died:
Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black,
And one stood visor'd by, with glittering axe
Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form—
Methought the head of him that seem'd to die,
With ghastly face and painful, patient stare,
Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor,
As unseen fiends did pull it by its mass
Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn'd
Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman's mask
Had fallen to the ground—
Thou didst not do it?
For it was thy face. Father, answer me! [She
implores in a very earnest attitude, and gradually
falls back.]
Crom. [Stands amazed at his daughter's action.]
I'll hear no more. 'Twas not my daughter spoke—
She's dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice
From yon pale tenement of clay. My hair's on end.
She said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug.
Avaunt! I meant well. [Shouts are heard without.]
Hark! hear without
A Babel of hoarse demons clamouring loud
For Cromwell, the Protector!
[His daughter points upward.]
No! not there.
I cannot follow thee. A Spirit stands,
Anointed, in the breach of Heaven's walls,
Behind him streams intolerable light,
His floating locks are crown'd—His look repels—
I was his murderer on earth—His gaze
Speaks pity; but not pardon—Let me rise,
There's mercy on his brow—I fall, I fall.
I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not:
His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight:
A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat.
They call'd me Cromwell when I liv'd on earth,
And said I slew a king. There is no air—
[He sinks exhausted on a chair.]
Enter PEARSON.
Eliz. [To PEARSON.] Pearson, thou lov'st him?
Pear. Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.
[Looks at CROMWELL.]
The dark fit is upon him. I have found
'Tis best to leave him to himself;—
Eliz. No! no!
There is no time. My breath is short. O Pearson,
Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die.
Life will not turn my hour-glass any more,
Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast,
Ebb hollowly away. I would but speak
A few soft words of comfort, pray him to
Repent; there is repentance,—for his heart
Sinn'd not so deeply as the world may think.
Crom. [Raising himself.] Who said repentance?
What's done, is done well.
I stand acquitted. Daughter, cheer thee, rise.
Thou shalt recover, my sweet darling. List!
It was the Lord reveal'd it to me.
Eliz. Cease!
Father, blaspheme no longer; with such words
Feed the wild fever of the enthusiast crew,
Pander to hypocrites; but not here, now,
Deceive thyself, or me—
[During this Pearson has slowly withdrawn.]
Crom. This is not well;
As the Lord liveth, those poor lips, my child,
Speak foolishness. Who taught thee to rebuke
Thy father? Know, he stands 'twixt thee and God,
Not thou between the living God and him.
Eliz. What was that agony that tore thee now?— Why didst thou swoon and talk of murder, kings, Of hell and sulphur and the mocking fiends?
Crom. Must thou now learn that when my soul is dark
With sorrow, agitation, melancholy,
I am possess'd with black delirious fits?—
'Twas so ere thou wert born, ere I was call'd
Unto a burden heavier, than man
Unsuffering may bear; but, daughter, listen!
I am not guilty! if the human mind
May keep account with its own issuings forth
To act and do; if thought deceive us not,
And reason live in man. I am not guilty, if
The blind chimera of an earth-crown'd king
Be less than God's truth—not, if it be well
To love this people; to have drawn the sword
For mercy's sake alone. I am not guilty!
(O God! call back her eyes' fast fading light,
Lest she die judging me.) I am not guilty!
Except in loving thee too well. My lips
Shall speak no more at the eternal judgment
Than this—
Eliz. 'Tis truth! It cannot be but truth,
All things seem different, yet just now I thought
To see more clearly, whilst I dar'd to judge him—
How happy am I now—forgive me, oh!
My father!
Crom. It has been, that I have shrunk
From noble consciousness of the good work,
For love of thee—seeing thee pine and faint,
Deeming thy parent guilty of much blood,
And great deeds for the small base thought of self.
Thus, like the patriarch, I have cried aloud
Unto the Lord, rebelling thus against
His holy will. This is my darkest error.
Eliz. Now, let me comfort him and die in peace. O father, 'tis another love that bends This blighted form to earth.
Crom. Ha! What is this? Thy husband!
Eliz. Fear not, I am pure in thought
And deed—yet I was married early,
Ere I had lov'd. I could not choose but love,
When I saw one—No matter—I am pure;
But death is welcome. Do not frown on me:
I ne'er had told thee, but for comfort's sake,
Lest thou shouldst think that thou hadst slain thy daughter.
Crom. Can this be true?
And she is dying thus!
Would I had known it sooner; ere, alas!
It was too late. Come, tell me everything.
[He kneels down beside her.]
Eliz. Nay, let this thing go by; clasp me unto thee.
Forgive me all the pain that I have cost thee.
I feel as if I were again a child
That prattled by thy side, ere strife had come,
And sown those wrinkles in thy lofty brow;
'Bend till my faded fingers reach to smooth them!
I cannot think but of an evening walk,
When thou didst tell me of the life of David,
And how he dwelt with God—'twas on the bench
Round the oak tree in the fair pasturage,
[Organ plays.]
Behind the church;—see, see, yon arched window
Is full of light. Hush! they are singing, hush!
The sun is cheerful! Nature praises God.
Leave me not yet, my father, spare one hour
Unto thy child. Nay, then, we shall meet soon.
Thou smil'st, sweet Spirit, all the rest grows dim!
See by yon pale and monumental form,
The old man kneeling, weeps. I come! I come!
[Falls back and dies, her hands clasped in the attitude of a recumbent marble effigy. During the latter part, till the interruption, an organ is heard playing solemn music.]
Enter a Servant, L.; he makes a sign that some one is coming. CROMWELL bows his head. Enter a PHYSICIAN, LADY CROMWELL, and Sisters, L.
Phy. Doth she sleep?—
Crom. Ay, tread softly, for the ground Is holy—
Phy. [Addressing the body.] Lady!
Crom. He, she answereth, Is there! [Points above.]
Lady Crom. Dead! oh, Elizabeth!
Crom. Why griev'st thou, woman!
Rejoice with the angels rather.
Did I not hear
But now an organ?— [To the Physician.]
Phy. 'Twas, I think, my lord, Your secretary, Milton.
Crom. Let him come here.
[Exit PHYSICIAN, U.E.R. During this time, LADY CROMWELL kneels by the body of her daughter, whilst a curtain is drawn round the couch. The folding-doors and curtains close all in as CROMWELL goes, L.]
Enter an OFFICER and Officers in Naval Uniform with Despatches, L.
Offi. These to your Highness!
Crom. [Tearing them open.] C. From our admiral,
The gallant Blake. Another victory—
The Hollanders have yielded, that did late
Insult our English flag.
[Shouting is heard without.]
Milton. [Who has entered, U.E.R., unperceived.] Most humble tenders From France and Spain await your Excellency.
Crom. Ay! we will treat anon.
Milton. The Turks have yielded
The traitor Hyde—The Vaudois, sav'd, are blessing,
In their bright peaceful valleys, your great name,
First in their prayers to Heaven—
An Usher. Sir, there are messages From various sects; the enfranchis'd Jews, and all Whose burdens you have lighten'd, pray to see you.
Crom. Let all come in. I need all grateful hearts Around me now.
Enter an Officer with IRONSIDES, L.
Offi. [Speaking softly.] My lord!
Crom. Speak out, I say!
Thou tear'st my heart-strings with thy whispering.
It is grown a habit here not wanted more.
Sir, I am childless. Speak your message out.
I have no heart now, save for England's glory.
Offi. My lord, will't please you to receive these letters? Dunkirk is ceded to the English crown.
Crom. Crown, sirrah? Where didst thou teach thy tongue that tinsel word? Go, mend thy speech, although thou bear'st good tidings.
He walks to and fro.
Had she but liv'd to hear this. Yet, O God,
Thy will be done!
[To an officer.]
Now let the cannon speak,
And trumpets tell this news unto the nation.
[Flourish of trumpets and cannon behind the scenes.]
'Tis well! I'll make the name of England sound
As great, as glorious, with as full an echo,
As ever that of Rome in olden time.
By distant shores, in every creek and sea,
Her fleets shall lend proud shadows to the waters,
While their loud salvos silence hostile forts
With luxury of daring. Englishmen
Shall carry welcome with their wanderings.
Her name shall be the world's great watchword, fram'd
To make far tyrants tremble, slaves, rejoicing,
Unlock their lean arms from their hollow breasts,
And good men challenge holy brotherhood,
Where'er that word of pride is heard around.
For this the shallow name of king be lost
In the majestic freedom of the age.
'Tis slaves have need of trappings for their lords.
By Heaven, I say, a score of kings, each back'd
By his mean date of twenty rotted sires,
Could do no more than this. I will be more
Than all these weak and hireling Stuarts. This
Let Time and England judge, as years roll on.
[Flourish as the curtain falls.]
*This is a line interpolated, in my last revision of the passage, from Shelley's "Revolt of Islam." It was pointed out to me by a friend, who thought it would give force and clearness to the contest. The noble stanzas on America, from which it is taken, will be found in Ascham's edition of "Shelley's Poems," page 147, commencing with
"There is a people mighty in its youth."