A hundredfold, who, having learned Thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.”
Cromwell has already sent £2,000 out of his own purse to the sufferers. Now he dictates his stern message, and Milton translates it into resounding Latin of such force and fervour that Cardinal Mazarin dare not ignore its purport. The Duke of Savoy and the cardinal may gnash their teeth with rage, but, with the whole power of France at their command, they dare not again lift a finger against the Waldenses while Cromwell lives. No incident in the whole history of the Commonwealth reveals more clearly the salutary fear which the name of Cromwell excites on the Continent.
But his days are numbered. In three short years he will go hence, and in two years more a Stuart will sit on the throne, and at his coming England will be “reduced to a nullity”—aye, and worse, to reproach and shame. Worn out with constant anxiety, the death of a favourite daughter brings him speedily to the valley of the shadow. “I would be willing to live,” murmurs the dying man, “to be further serviceable to God and His people; but my work is done.” He lies on his deathbed while a great storm rages over England. In the morning calm succeeds tempest, and on the anniversary of his great victories at Dunbar and Worcester he breathes his last. They bury him in Westminster Abbey, amidst the kings; but his bones are not long to rest in that hallowed fane. The Stuart king, to his everlasting shame, will tear the unoffending body from its coffin and gibbet it in unavailing contempt. But ages to come will do him tardy justice, and men will come to honour his memory even while they lift their hats and pray, “God save the king!”
Cromwell dictating Dispatches to Milton.
(From the picture by Ford Madox Brown, in the Manchester Art Gallery. By permission of the Manchester Corporation.)
