Part 15 (2/2)

Your cause is just; though devils fight for it, Heaven with its sworded angels doth enlist them: So works a wise and wondrous Providence.

_Arth._ Tell me, what think you then of Cromwell?

Is he Ambitious, cruel, eager, cunning, false, Slave to himself and master sole of others?

Is his religion but as puppet-wires, To set a hideous idol up of self, Like some fierce G.o.d of Ind? Or is he but A fiery pillar leading the sure way-- Arriv'd, content to die by his own light, As others lived upon his burning truth, And struggled to him from surrounding darkness?

_Mil._ There is much good in him, yet not all good; And yet believe the cause he seeks divine.

Listen! this is the worst 'twere possible To speak of him. He is a man, Whom Heaven hath chosen for an instrument, Yet not so sanctified, to such high use, That all the evil factions of the heart, Ambition, worldly pride, suspicion, wrath, Are dead within him--and thus, mark you how Wisdom doth s.h.i.+ne in this, more than if pure, With unavailing; excellent tears and woe, He pray'd afar in dim and grottoed haunt To quench the kingdom's foul iniquities-- An interceding angel had not done it So well as this fierce superst.i.tious man.

_Arth._ But if the king be prisoner and were slain?

_Mil._ I trust not that; yet kings are not divine--

_Arth._ Nor churches, temples, still ye would not rend The altar vow'd to Heaven.

_Mil._ No, but purge The living fire upon it, when the name Is brutish and discolour'd.--When kings fail, Let's b.a.s.t.a.r.dize the craven to his breed, And hurl him recreant down!

_Arth._ But not destroy--

_Mil._ 'Twould heal the sight of millions yet unborn.

_Arth._ In this I am not with you; yet I grant So far 'tis well. I trust a different end.

The king, that hath much n.o.ble feeling in him, Will yield; and then we will give back again His just prerogative--

_Mil._ It may be so.

Where is the high-soul'd Stratford?--The same weakness That yielded there is obstinacy now, To the last drop of the pride-tainted blood That through the melancholy Stuart's veins Doth creep and curdle--

_Arth._ You do make me sad--

_Mil._ Nay, there is sadness in the n.o.ble task Appointed us. An hour past came Cromwell here As full of sorrow for the king; as thou-- Hating the sour and surly Presbyter And bitter wrath of the fierce Parliament.

He parted from me in an angry mood Because I coldly met his warm desire That Charles might reign again--

_Arth._ Indeed! Is't so?

_Enter a Servant to MILTON, R._

_Serv._ There is a messenger would see you, sir!

_Mil._ I will be back anon, pray rest awhile.

[_Goes out, R. Servant follows MILTON._]

_Arth._ He should be right, that is so wise and good, Living like some angelic visitant, Dismay'd not from his purpose and great aim By all the fierce and angry discord round.

So one in sober mood and pale high thought Stands in a door-way, whence he sees within The riot warm of wa.s.sailing, and hears All the dwarf Babel of their common talk, As each small drunken mind floats to the top And general surface of the senseless din; Whilst every tuneless knave doth rend the soul Of harmony, the more he hath refus'd To sing; ere Bacchus set him by the ears With common sense, his dull and morning guide; And stutterers speak fast, and quick men stutter, And gleams of fitful mirth s.h.i.+ne on the brow Of moody souls, and careless gay men look Fierce melodrama on their friends around; While talk obscene and loyalty mark all; Then good or bad emotions meet the eye, Like a mosaic floor, whose black and white Glistens more keenly, moisten'd by the stain Of liquor widely spilt.

_Re-enter Servant, R._

_Serv._ Sir! will you enter?

'Tis Master Andrew Marvel that is here.

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