CROMWELL. Plead they so warm for Stuart? 'tis too late!
CECIL. It is too late!
CROMWELL. Since last we parted, Hubert,
He, the high author of our civil wars,
Hath been their victim. 'Twas an evil, Hubert;
But so is justice ever when it falls
Upon a human life!
CECIL. God's mercy!—justice!
Why justice is a consequence of law—
Founded on law—begotten but by law!
By what law, Cromwell, fell the King?
CROMWELL. By all
The laws he left us! Prithee silence, Cecil!
Sir, I might threaten, but I will not:—hold!
And let us, with a calm and sober eye,
Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed.
Who spills man's blood, his blood by man be shed!
'Tis Heaven's first law—to that law we had come—
None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife,
That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor?
It was the Stuart:—so the Stuart fell!
A victim, in the pit himself had digged!
He died not, Sir, as hated kings have died,
In secret and in shade—no eye to trace
The one step from their prison to their pall;
He died i' the eyes of Europe—in the face
Of the broad Heaven—amidst the sons of England,
Whom he had outraged—by a solemn sentence,
Passed by a solemn court. Does this seem guilt?
(It might be error—mortal men will err!)
But Guilt not thus unrobes it to the day;
Its deeds are secret, as our act was public.
You pity Charles! 'tis well; but pity more
The tens of thousand honest humble men,
Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled
To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field!
Good Lord—when one man dies who wears a crown,
How the earth trembles—how the nations gape,
Amazed and awed!—but when that one man's victims,
Poor worms uncloth'd in purple, daily die,
In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet,
Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls
Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes:
Ye weep the ravening vulture when he bleeds,
And coldly gaze upon the countless prey
He gorged at one fell meal. Be still young man;
Your time for speech will come. So much for justice;
Now for yet larger duties: to our hands
The peace and weal of England were consigned;
These our first thought and duty. Should we loose
Charles on the world again, 'twere to unleash
Once more the Fiend of Carnage: should we guard
His person in our prison, still his name
Would float, a wizard's standard, in the air,
Rallying fresh war on Freedom; a fit theme
To wake bad pity in the breasts of men;
A focus for all faction here at home,
And in the lewd courts of his brother kings.
So but one choice remained: it was that choice
Which (you are skilled methinks in classic lore,
And prize such precedent,) the elder Brutus
Made when he judged his children: such the choice
Of his descendant—when, within the senate
He sought to crush, the crafty Cæsar fell.
CECIL. Cæsar may find his type amidst the living;
And by that name our sons may christen Cromwell.
CROMWELL. Men's deeds are fair enigmas—let man solve them!
But men's dark motives are i' the Books of God.
(In a milder tone)
Cecil! thou wert as my adopted son.
Hast thou not still fought by my proper person—
Eat'n at my board—slept in my tent—conceived
From me thy rudiments and lore of war—
Hath not my soul yearned to thee—have I not
Brought thee, yet beardless, into mark and fame—
Given thee trust and honor—nay, to bind
Still closer to my sheltering heart thine own—
Have I not smiled upon thy love for Edith,
(For I, too, once was young,) and bid thee find
Thy plighted bride in my familiar kin—
And wilt thou, in this crisis of my fate,
When my good name stands trembling in the balance,
And one friend wanting may abase the scale,
Wilt thou thus judge me harshly—take no count
Of the swift eddies of the whirlpool time,
Which urge us on to any port for peace,
And set the brand of thy austere rebuke
Upon the heart that loved thee so? Fie! fie!
CECIL. Arouse thine anger, Cromwell! rate me, vent
Thy threats on this bare front—thy kindness kills me!
CROMWELL. Bear with me, son, as I would bear with thee!
Add not to these grim cares that press upon me.
Eke thou not out the evils of the time;
They are enow to grind my weary soul.
Restrain the harsher thoughts, that would reprove,
Until a calmer season, when 'tis given
To talk of what hath been with tempered minds;
And part we now in charity.
CECIL. O Cromwell,
If now we part, it is forever. Here
I do resign my office in thy hands;
Lay down my trust and charge,—