Part 22 (1/2)

_1st Art._ Cease quarrelling, and come and play at skittles.

_2nd Art._ With the king's head for a ball?

_A Woman._ Ay, he was a bad man to his wife, and deserved to die.

_3rd Art._ And a pagan Turk.

_2nd Art._ That would have made all us Christians deny pork.

_3rd Art._ And built s.h.i.+ps with our houses.

_2nd Art._ Well, it's a rare sight to see a king die.

A bishop is something; but a king is a treat for a poor man's holiday.

_1st Art._ But we shall not be poor now.

_All._ Down with all kings! Live Cromwell! live the Parliament, live Fairfax, live everybody!

[_Exeunt severally._]

_Stage dark. The moon s.h.i.+nes brilliantly upon the abbey._

_Enter CROMWELL, cloaked, U.E.R._

_Crom._ This night the place looks older than it is, As if some future centuries had pa.s.s'd, Leaving their shadows on it-- Yon tall towers, That pierce the unsettled sky, Seem not to point unto the stars that watch My coming greatness; but with solemn air To frown back on the memory of Cromwell-- Yon dark cathedral, whose sharp turret spires Look like funereal firs on Ararat, When the sun setting stream'd in blood upon The fast decaying waters--that huge pile Of gloomy wors.h.i.+p to the G.o.d of ages, Feels like this age's tomb and monument.

Would I were buried in it, so I might Sleep there--for O, I cannot sleep to-night.

My molten blood runs singing through my veins.

It is no wonder: I have known less things Disturb my rest; besides, there is a thought Hath led me forth--Come, let me deal with it.

'Tis midnight! Now to face him were a deed, To feel that one had done it--not to tell.

To fold the arms and look upon the work That I have wrought with stedfast, iron will-- There's evil fascination in the thought: Grows to desire!

I cannot stay my feet!

Like one in dreams, or hurried by a storm, That hales him on with wild uncertain steps, I move on to the thing I dread.

[_Sighs deeply._]

Methought A voice stole on mine ears--as if a sword [_Sighs again._]

Clove the oppressive air. Why do I shrink?

On Naseby field my bare head tower'd high; And now I bend me, though my tingling ears Unconscious but drink in the deep-drawn sigh, That doth attend on greatness.

This is folly.

O coward fancy, lie still in thy grave!

A king doth keep his coffin, why not thou?

I'll meet him like a conqueror, whose cheek Flushes with manly pity. Could it be That he had lived without his country's shame!

But no! and thus, I come, Charles Stuart! to tell Thy bloodless clay, that I repent me _not_!

No! if a hecatomb of kings were slain, I'd own the deed unto their legion'd spirits! [_Exit, L._]

SCENE IV.