CECIL. Cromwell, fare thee well! As friends we meet no more. May God so judge As I now judge, believing thee as one Whom a bold heart, and the dim hope of power, And the blind wrath of faction, and the spur Of an o'ermastering Fate, impel to what {611} The Past foretells already to the Future. Dread man, farewell. [_exit Cecil_] CROMWELL. [_after a pause_] So from my side hath gone An upright heart; and in that single loss, Methinks more honesty hath said farewell, Than if a thousand had abjured my banners. Charles sleeps, and feels no more the grinding cares, The perils and the doubts that wait on POWER. For him, no more the uneasy day,—the night At war with sleep,—for him are hushed, at last, Loud Hate and hollow Love. Reverse thy Law, O blind compassion of the human heart! And let not death which feels not, sins not—weeps not— Rob Life of all that Suffering asks from Pity. [_He paces to and fro the scene, and pauses at last opposite the doors at the back of the stage_] Lo! what a slender barrier parts in twain The presence of the breathing and the dead— The vanquisher and victim—the firm foot Of lusty strength, and the unmoving mass Of what all strength must come to. Yet once more, Ere the grave closes on that solemn dust, Will I survey what men have feared to look on. [_He opens the doors—the coffin of the king on the back ground lighted by tapers—Cromwell approaches it slowly, lifts the pall, and gazes, as if on the corpse within_] 'Tis a firm frame; the sinews strongly knit; The chest deep set and broad; save some grey hairs Saddening those locks of love, no sign of age. Had nature been his executioner _He would have outlived me!_ and to this end— This narrow empire—this unpeopled kingdom— This six feet realm—the overlust of sway Hath been the guide! He would have stretched his will O'er that unlimited world which men's souls are! Fettered the earth's pure air—for freedom is That air to honest lips;—and here he lies, In dust most eloquent—to after time A never silent oracle for kings! Was this the hand that strained within its grasp So haught a sceptre? this the shape that wore Majesty like a garment? Spurn that clay— It can resent not; speak of royal crimes, And it can frown not: schemeless lies the brain Whose thoughts were sources of such fearful deeds. What things are we, O Lord, when at thy will A worm like this could shake the mighty world! A few years since, and in the port was moored A bark to far Columbia's forests bound; And I was one of those indignant hearts Panting for exile in the thirst for freedom; Then, that pale clay (poor clay that was a king!) Forbade my parting, in the wanton pride Of vain command, and with a fated sceptre Waved back the shadow of the death to come. Here stands that baffled and forbidden wanderer,