_Mil._ I little dreamt, my lord! to hear you speak So wildly and so sadly of the course Of your most virtuous and ennobling deeds. Think not I do not mourn the angel light That beam'd upon your path, soon haply fled, Flushing the sky with rosy winnowings Of dove-like wings, a Spirit, to the God Who gave her thee, and so recalls. She is A pure devoted woman, and thy child-- Thus far I understand thy soul's repinings. But so to start as shaken by a dream From an unquiet couch, to grope in night And wailing darkness, thus to storm and rave, To mock the God of battles and thy might; To let the rod that scourg'd the pestilent land Fall from thy tender hold--I had not thought Of this, and I had rather died than see it. True thou wert less than father, more than man To bear no sorrow. Yet should England soar Far, far above the sad domestic grave Of Cromwell's dearest love of kin or kind; And the big tear, that in the eye will gather, In him should only halo freedom's sun With brighter lustre, holier radiance. _Crom._ Speak on, the passion passes. Yet be kind, Read not thy lesson sternly; for in grief There is much tumult and forgetfulness. When my son died 'twas different; though his death Went to my heart, indeed it did, a son That might have wielded England's destinies; And now I cannot look beyond the night Of mine own day (it is late evening with me Already) for a soul to guide this people. How bravely bare I his young, glorious death, And when one died at Marston afterward, I wrote his father bidding him rejoice, And something boasted of mine own bereavement, I said, "Forget your private sorrow, sir, In this late public mercy, victory Unto the saints." O bitter fool, to chide A father so, when I might lose my daughter! [_A trumpet is heard without._] Hear'st thou? [_Walks up and down a moment._] 'Tis Harrison. News from the camp Forget this, honour'd friend! [_To Milton._] _Mil._ I will, I do! _Crom._ Now I could hew my way Amidst a thousand. Give me my steel cap, My sword and iron greaves, my vant-braces: I will array in proof. What is the shock Of living squadrons to the armed thoughts, Whose dark battalions I have just now quell'd? I would the clouds of battle roll'd around This moment. Lo! my spirit is reviv'd Like Samson's, when he drank at Ramath-lehi-- _Enter IRETON and IRONSIDES, L._ What is it? _Ire._ Mutiny! The soldiers swear That they will have their right-- _Crom._ Their _right_, said'st thou? Come, Ireton, you and I will give them it; But, by the Lord, they'll wish for wrong again Ere I have done with them. _Ire._ 'Twere best to take Your faithful guard-- _Crom._ I'll take _none_. What! They are Mine own. I'll deal with them. If thou dost fear, Son Ireton, stay behind. What! be afraid Of my own rascals I have drill'd and led So frequently? Come on, I did but need This pretty farce to stir me. Mutiny! I'll strike the leaders' heads off, at the head Each of his column--