Part 28 (2/2)

Twas but the night-wind's flagging breath! No sound Of mortal footstep, as it hither crept Tiptoe and carefully, 'twas like a murderer, That in his sleep walks forth. See, how he threads his way 'Mid all the antique chattels of the room Where it was none! Mark, where his careful feet Avoid yon blood-stains, though they shrink not when The grey rat courses o'er them! Nay, 'tis gone.

A shape of fancy's painting to the sight.

'Twas but the wind, I said--whose fleeting voice The vaulted corridor did syllable aloud, Mingling my name with tombs.

Again, I hear It is his heavy footstep--

_Enter CROMWELL, L._

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,

[_He lets fall the cup._]

As in my dreams. I would a.s.soil him. Father!

'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear Thought guiding action in all human things, Not in the busy, whirling masque of life, Reality unreal, but in truth.

Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon's knife Mocks the poor corpse. I saw not when he died: Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black, And one stood visor'd by, with glittering axe Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form-- Methought the head of him that seem'd to die, With ghastly face and painful, patient stare, Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor, As unseen fiends did pull it by its ma.s.s Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn'd Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman's mask Had fallen to the ground-- Thou didst not do it?

For it was _thy_ face. Father, answer me! [_She implores in a very earnest att.i.tude, and gradually falls back._]

_Crom._ [_Stands amazed at his daughter's action._]

I'll hear no more. 'Twas not my daughter spoke-- She's dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice From yon pale tenement of clay. My hair's on end.

She said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug.

Avaunt! I meant well. [_Shouts are heard without._]

Hark! hear without A Babel of hoa.r.s.e demons clamouring loud For Cromwell, the Protector!

[_His daughter points upward._]

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--

[_He sinks exhausted on a chair._]

_Enter PEARSON._

_Eliz._ [_To PEARSON._]

Pearson, thou lov'st him?

_Pear._ Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap.

[_Looks at CROMWELL._]

The dark fit is upon him. I have found 'Tis best to leave him to himself;--

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