_Arth._ Fair sir! I know you not enough for this: I am a stranger to these hapless broils Between your sovereign and some of you. Yet let me thank you for this worthless life-- Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not The serf of custom to uphold a wrong, Or slave of tyrants to deny a right, Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart, Hating the deed he cannot estimate: As if, when some great exile to our land Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire, But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir, Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore, Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust, The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend, Haply now dead, or any other lie So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable, That weak men found it easier to believe Than the invention; while the bad in heart, By true worth most offended, felt relief, Protesting still they wish'd it were not so, With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask, Worn uselessly by hatred. Think me not Of these--nor yet too rash in sympathy. I would reflect well ere I draw the sword To fling the sheath away; I bid you now A kind farewell. _Crom._ Full soon to meet array'd In arms, the instruments of Heaven together Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword. Are ours--now good night! [_With emotion._] Sir, this poor land Needs all her honest children--noble sorrow, And yet a cheerful spirit to assert The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth, Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice And perish flaming in the night of space, An atheist torch to warn the universe-- Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell! [_Exit CROMWELL, L._] _Arth._ A rude and uncurb'd martialist!--and yet A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not A hypocrite, too haggard is his face, Too deep and harsh his voice. His features wear No soft, diluted, and conventional smile Of smirk content; befitting lords, and dukes, Not men of nature's honoured stamp and wear-- How fervently he spake Of Milton. Strange, what feeling is abroad! There is an earnest spirit in these times, That makes men weep--dull, heavy men, else born For country sports, to slip into their graves, When the mild season of their prime had reach'd Mellow decay, whose very being had died In the same breeze that bore their churchyard toll, Without a memory, save in the hearts Of the next generation, their own heirs, When they in turn grew old and thought of dying-- Even such men as these now gird themselves With swords and Bibles, and, nought doubting, rush Into the world's undying chronicles! This struggle hath in it a solemn echo Of the old world, when God was present still In fiery columns, burning oracles: Ere earnest faith and new reality Had grown diluted, fading from the earth Through feeble ages of a mock existence, Whose Heaven and Hell were but as outer fables, That trouble not man's stage-like dream of life.