Part 61 (1/2)

CROMWELL. And is it mine? And have my feet at length Attained the summit of the rock i' the sand?

THURLOW. And yet, my lord, you have long reigned.

CROM. Nay, nay!

Power I have 'joyed, in sooth, but not the name.

Thou smilest, Thurlow. Ah, thou little know'st What hole it is Ambition digs i' th' heart What end, most seeming empty, is the mark For which we fret and toil and dare! How hard With an unrounded fortune to sit down!

Then, what a l.u.s.tre from most ancient times Heaven has flung o'er the sacred head of kings!

King--Majesty--what names of power! No king, And yet the world's high arbiter! The thing Without the word! no handle to the blade!

Away--the empire and the name are one!

Alack! thou little dream'st how grievous 'tis, Emerging from the crowd, and at the top Arrived, to feel that there is _something_ still Above our heads; something, nothing! no matter-- That word is everything.

LEITCH RITCHIE.

MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL.

_(”Non! je n'y puis tenir.”)_

[CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.]

Stay! I no longer can contain myself, But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind To Oliver--to Cromwell, Milton speaks!

Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep A voice is lifted up without your leave; For I was never placed at council board To speak _my_ promptings. When awed strangers come Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings In my epistles--and bring admiring votes Of learned colleges, they strain to see My figure in the glare--the usher utters, ”Behold and hearken! that's my Lord Protector's Cousin--that, his son-in-law--that next”--who cares!

Some perfumed puppet! ”Milton?” ”He in black-- Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!”

Still 'chronicling small-beer,'--such is my duty!

Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones, And echoed ”Vengeance for the Vaudois,” where The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses.

He is but the mute in this seraglio-- ”Pure” Cromwell's Council!

But to be dumb and blind is overmuch!

Impatient Issachar kicks at the load!

Yet diadems are burdens painfuller, And I would spare thee that sore imposition.

Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself!

Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart, What fool has said: ”There is no king but thou?”

For thee the mult.i.tude waged war and won-- The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, And homeless lords! The ma.s.s must always suffer That one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd, And nothing but the name thereon is changed-- Master? still masters! mark you not the red Of shame unutterable in my sightless white?

Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake!

These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, Have sought for Liberty--to give it thee?

To make our interests your huckster gains?

The king a lion slain that you may flay, And wear the robe--well, worthily--I say't, For I will not abase my brother!

No! I would keep him in the realm serene, My own ideal of heroes! loved o'er Israel, And higher placed by me than all the others!

And such, for tinkling t.i.tles, hollow haloes Like that around yon painted brow--thou! thou!

Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself!

And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field As scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou, Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, Or to-morrow--deem that a certain pedestal Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er--e'en while It shakes--o'ersets the rider! Tremble, thou!

For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind, Will see the pillars of his palace kiss E'en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word Of answer from your wreck when I demand Account of Cromwell! glory of the people Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear; ”What didst thou with thy virtue?” Will it respond: ”When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers!