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Read Ebook: Cromwell: A Drama in Five Acts by Richards Alfred Bate
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Ebook has 78 lines and 33189 words, and 2 pages
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In thy ripe lips is his summer, Autumn in thy braided hair; Jealous is he of spring's snow-drops Stolen from thy neck's warm care; But the winter of his mind Is when thou, love, art unkind: In thee rounded, thus, his year, Joy, doubt, sweet content, and fear.
Mine eyes burn so--And they are happy there Together--'twas my work--and now I wish That seas convuls'd by tempests were between them; And an eternal veil of blackness girded The one from the other--each in separate light, But still apart! apart! O horror, why Doth their communion cast such hopeless gloom Upon me, more than all a father's guilt, A sovereign's woe?--O daughter of a traitor! Traitoress! Thou lovest him thy friend doth love, And--he loves her! ay, that is it, he loves her.
I am a wedded wife. There is no stain Of guilty wish. I ne'er thought to be his: No! no! False wretch, thou dost this moment. Hold, 'Tis past! Oh! would that I were far remov'd, Not seeing, hearing, knowing all their lore, Not feeling their young blest affection jar Through every fibre--thus! This is the day The king's fate is decided--If he die Arthur will hate us, hate my father, me, The regicide's pale daughter--thus to think Of the king's life! that was my only prayer Before; and now it fades on my cold lips, And startles me to hear it! O my heart! It seems as though a thousand daggers' points Would not suffice to stab it, so it might Feel some release-- My God! forsake me not!
The word, or else we fire!
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. I would see how he looks: Perchance, I may undo the look he sent, In search of me this morn from off the scaffold.
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!
Ho! there--hola! We are alone. I do forget me--stay--
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.
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; 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!
Another blow? no, no! there was but one: He suffered nothing!
What will you do with him?
Hear'st thou? 'Tis Harrison. News from the camp Forget this, honour'd friend!
What is it?
Come on, I did but need This pretty farce to stir me. Mutiny! I'll strike the leaders' heads off, at the head Each of his column--
Follow me, son Ireton! No other--
A rivederci, as the Italian saith.
Jealous?--Is this a time?--What!--
Then I'll go Alone--
This for the Commonwealth!
Come, I have business, both of you, farewell!
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,
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--
The dark fit is upon him. I have found 'Tis best to leave him to himself;--
Had she but liv'd to hear this. Yet, O God, Thy will be done!
Now let the cannon speak, And trumpets tell this news unto the nation.
"There is a people mighty in its youth."
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