_Flor._ I do remember, journeying hither once, On horseback, that I saw a poor lad, slain In some sad skirmish of these cruel wars; There seem'd no wound, and so I stay'd by him, Thinking he might live still. But, ever, whilst I stretch'd to reach some trifling thing for aid, His sullen head would slip from off my knee, And his damp hair to earth would wander down, Till I grew frighten'd thus to challenge Death, And with the king of terrors idly play.-- Yet those pale lips deserted not the smile Of froward, gay defiance, lingering there, Like a tir'd truant's sleeping on the grass, Mid the stray sun-beams of unsadden'd hope, Dreaming of one perpetual holiday. _Lady Crom._ And was he dead?--Tell me what came of him. _Flor._ The silent marches of the stars had clos'd The slow retreat of that calm summer noon, Ere I compos'd his gentle limbs to rest, And left him where he lay. No crimson wound, No dark ensanguin'd stain did sully him: Yet had some fatal missile reach'd his heart, That bled, as mine does now, within, within! _Lady Crom._ How sad a tale; yet; all will still be well. Yield not to this wild burst of agony. _Flor._ O, I was happy and I knew it not, But jested with the heart that lov'd me well. The sickening echo of each foolish word I said to pain him comes to torture me-- _Lady Crom._ Cease, cease! Indeed my heart is sad enough. My daughter needs us. _Flor._ O forgive me, Madam! My grief seem'd thoughtless of another's woe, And I that love her so?--I'll go with you This instant, watch by her, and pray for all This most unhappy world. Come, let us seek her-- Haste! Will she know me, think you? Lean on me, You are fatigued with watching. I am strong. [_Exeunt, U.E.R._] _Enter CROMWELL alone, R._ _Crom._ How well he died, that liv'd not well--his words Strike cold here. Kings have died ere now, whose lives Were needless, hurtful to their people's good, But none so meek as this. O Cromwell! Cromwell! Hast thou done well! O could an angel light The deepest corner of thy secret mind, And tell thee thou'rt not damned to Hell for this, The avenging act of horror--or that, inspir'd, Thou wert the minister of Heaven's decree, And that ambition drugg'd not thy design With soul-consuming poison! I, this I, Have done it--for what!--Which is't? To live and reign? Or crown the smiling land with good? Well, both! If I have sinn'd, it was at least for all. The puny stripling calls not his love, lust: The passions that we have in us may blend With noble purpose and with high design; Else men who saw the world had gone astray Would only wish it better--and lie down, In vain regret to perish.-- How his head Roll'd on the platform with deep, hollow sound! Methinks I hear it now, and through my brain It vibrates like the storm's accusing knell, Making the guilty quake. I am not guilty! It was the nation's voice, the headsman's axe. Why drums it then within my throbbing ear?-- I slew him not! _Enter PEARSON, L._