SERVANT. Pardon, Madam! Methought the General here! LADY CLAYPOLE. Who asks my father? SERVANT. Sir Hubert Cecil, just arrived from Spain, Craves audience with his honor. LADY CLAYPOLE. Pray his entrance. Myself will seek the General. (_exit servant_) Thank me, Edith! If now I quit thee, wilt thou thank me less? EDITH. I prithee stay! LADY CLAYPOLE. Nay, Friendship is a star Fading before the presence of Love's sun. Farewell! Again, those blushes!—Edith, fie! (_exit Lady Claypole_) SCENE IV.—Cecil and Edith. CECIL. Where is the General?—Where—Oh, Heaven! my Edith? EDITH. Is there no welcome in that word? Am I Unlooked for at thy coming? CECIL. Pardon, Madam! I—I—(_aside_) Oh, God! how bitter is this trial! Why do I love her less? Why fall I not At her dear feet? Why stand I thus amazed? Is this not Edith? No! 'tis Cromwell's niece; And Cromwell is the murtherer of my king! EDITH. ‘Pardon’ and ‘madam!’—do I hear aright? Art thou so cold? Do I offend thine eyes? Thou turn'st away thy face! Well, Sir, 'tis well! Hubert! still silent! (_In a softer voice_) Hubert! CECIL. Oh, for grace! For heaven's dear grace! speak not in that sweet tone! Be not so like that shape that _was_ my Edith! EDITH. (_Gazing upon him with surprise and anger, turns as if to quit the stage, and then aside_) Sure he is ill! Keen travail and the cares Of these unhappy times have touched the string Of the o'erlabored brain. And shall I chide him? _I_ who should soothe? (_Approaches and aloud_) Art thou not well, dear Hubert? CECIL. Well! well! the leaping and exultant health Which makes wild youth unconscious of its clay, Deeming itself all soul; the golden chain Which link'd that earth, our passions—with that heaven, Our hopes—why _this_ was to be _well!_ But now One black thought from the fountain of the heart Gushes eternally, till all the streams Of all the world are poisoned,—and the Past Hath grown one death, whose grim and giant shadow Makes that chill darkness which we call ‘_the Future!_’ Where are my dreams of glory? Where the fame Unsullied by one stain of factious crime? And where—oh where!—the ever dulcet voice That murmured, in the star-lit nights of war, When the loud camp lay hushed, _thy_ holy name? Edith is mine no more! (_taking her hand_) Yet let me gaze Again upon thee! No! thou art not changed Ah! would thou wert! In that translucent cheek The roses tremble, stirr'd as by an air, With the pure impulse of thy summer soul— On thy white brow chaste conscience sits serene— There is no mark of blood on this fair hand— Yet Cromwell is thy kinsman!