_Crom._ Judgment! The Judgment! my good Milton. O my child! My best belov'd, my sweet Elizabeth, Is such a sacrifice. The cause how different, But the effect the same. Thou think'st it strange To pluck such image from remembrance forth-- And use it thus. There is a chain unseen, Linking the human beggar to the king, Virtue to vice; whereon doth sympathy Like lightning play between the two extremes, And so connect them. There is none can say "I am not as that man in anything." I spoke of one that was a woman, one That died repentant, one perchance in Heaven! My daughter's face, I tell thee, grows like her's. Reason not on it. O! The fault is here Why she lies stricken thus. [_Touches his breast._] Her tender frame Pines day and night, her young life breeding, sapp'd, Curs'd in the tainted thought of my ambition-- And she will die and sink into the grave, Prey'd on by doubt and horror of her father! Ere Hampden's death had seal'd the bond of strife, Thou knowest not, how oft to quit these shores With angel fervour she entreated me, And girt by true hearts--all my soul held dear-- To seek a home in that far western clime-- Nay, start not at the name--America!* Where boundless forests whisper Liberty With all their million-musick'd leaves, and blue lakes Murmur it, and great cataracts, that light With flash of whirling foam the tempest's scowl, To souls untam'd as they, roar Freedom! [_Crosses the Stage._] Ay! Thus to escape remorse-- Leaving this work to God and to His will, That I perchance too rashly made mine own, And noble hearts had follow'd and I had sav'd Her, so soon lost for ever! Is not this A thought had madden'd Brutus, though all Rome Did hail him saviour, while the Capitol Rock'd, like a soul-stirr'd Titan, to its base With their free acclamation?-- _Mil._ Was there not Another Brutus?-- _Crom._ Tell me not of Rome! Why speak not of the warriors of the forest Where I had gone, but for black destiny! They triumph in the torture of their kind, Their grinning honour must be stain'd with blood; 'Tis their religion to be feelingless. Why dost not lead me through yon corridor To gaze upon some hawk-nos'd effigy, And say, "This Roman slew his friend, his brother, His daughter--'Twas a great soul, and he liv'd A thousand years ago, and this is reason For thy warm daughter's death--that breathes and speaks With dainty actions nestling round thy heart, Woven in thine existence"--her, I priz'd More than the rest, whose gentle voice was as The harp of David to my gloomy soul-- Go! thou art wise; but here thy skill is folly!