As in my dreams. I would assoil him. Father! 'Tis said, upon the giddy verge of life The eye grows steady, and the soul sees clear Thought guiding action in all human things, Not in the busy, whirling masque of life, Reality unreal, but in truth. Then the eye cuts as the chirurgeon's knife Mocks the poor corpse. I saw not when he died: Yet last night was a scaffold, there! all black, And one stood visor'd by, with glittering axe Who struck the bare neck of a kneeling form-- Methought the head of him that seem'd to die, With ghastly face and painful, patient stare, Glided along the sable, blood-gilt floor, As unseen fiends did pull it by its mass Of dank and dabbled hair, and when I turn'd Mine eyes to see it not, the headsman's mask Had fallen to the ground-- Thou didst not do it? For it was _thy_ face. Father, answer me! [_She implores in a very earnest attitude, and gradually falls back._] _Crom._ [_Stands amazed at his daughter's action._] I'll hear no more. 'Twas not my daughter spoke-- She's dead, and Heaven reproves me with a voice From yon pale tenement of clay. My hair's on end. She said that fiends dragg'd his, 'tis mine they tug. Avaunt! I meant well. [_Shouts are heard without._] Hark! hear without A Babel of hoarse demons clamouring loud For Cromwell, the Protector! [_His daughter points upward._] No! not there. I cannot follow thee. A Spirit stands, Anointed, in the breach of Heaven's walls, Behind him streams intolerable light, His floating locks are crown'd--His look repels-- I was his murderer on earth--His gaze Speaks pity; but not pardon--Let me rise, There's mercy on his brow--I fall, I fall. I tell ye loose me, ere I see him not: His form recedes, clouds hide him from my sight: A hand of midnight grasps me by the throat. They call'd me Cromwell when I liv'd on earth, And said I slew a king. There is no air-- [_He sinks exhausted on a chair._] _Enter PEARSON._ _Eliz._ [_To PEARSON._] Pearson, thou lov'st him? _Pear._ Madam, with a love Born of those moments when men's lives are cheap. [_Looks at CROMWELL._] The dark fit is upon him. I have found 'Tis best to leave him to himself;-- _Eliz._ No! no! There is no time. My breath is short. O Pearson, Rouse him from that cold torpor, ere I die. Life will not turn my hour-glass any more, Whose thin sands, sinking at their centre fast, Ebb hollowly away. I would but speak A few soft words of comfort, pray him to Repent; there is repentance,--for his heart Sinn'd not so deeply as the world may think. _Crom._ [_Raising himself._] Who said repentance? What's done, is done well. I stand acquitted. Daughter, cheer thee, rise. Thou shalt recover, my sweet darling. List! It was the Lord reveal'd it to me. _Eliz._ Cease! Father, blaspheme no longer; with such words Feed the wild fever of the enthusiast crew, Pander to hypocrites; but not here, now, Deceive thyself, or me-- [_During this Pearson has slowly withdrawn._]