And from his bosom purge this black despair.”
See, says a less gentle observer, Warwick, how the pangs of death do make him grin. Royal Henry, on devouter thoughts intent, bids “peace to his soul,” in parting, “if God’s pleasure be.” And then the monarch solemnly, urgently, importunes the moribund cardinal to give some token, ere he quite depart, that Despair has not made him all her own: “Lord cardinal, if thou think’st on heaven’s bliss, hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope.” But the cardinal—dies, and makes no sign. The appeal is fruitless: no hand is held up; no signal of hope displayed. The baffled prince, cut to the heart, can but exclaim, “He dies, and makes no sign: O God, forgive him!” Warwick again interposes a harsher voice, “So bad a death argues a monstrous life,” he is sure. But his sovereign hushes his damning criticism with a right royal veto:—
“Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
...
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtain close;
And let us all to meditation.”
Forbear to judge. And the Shakspearean Henry practises in person the monition thus enforced. It is his rule to check in himself every tendency to uncharitable judgment. As when proof all but positive distresses him of his uncle Gloster’s death being due to violence, he yet restrains the bent of his convictions by the prayer,—
“O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts:
My thoughts, that labour to persuade my soul
Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey’s life!