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SCENE.—A tent in the Parliamentary camp. HAMPDEN lies wounded, and CROMWELL is bending over him.
Hampden. Spare all who yield; alas, that we must pierce | |
| One English heart for England! | |
| Cromwell. How he raves! | |
| The fever is at height. | |
| Hamp. I thank you, sir. | 5 |
| My wound is nothing; a little loss of blood; | |
| I fear much more must flow from worthier veins | |
| Ere England’s hurt be healed. | |
| Crom. How powerful are base things to destroy! | |
| The brute’s part in them kills the god’s in us, | 10 |
| And robs the world of many glorious deeds; | |
| In all the histories of famous men | |
| We never find the greatest overthrown | |
| Of such as were their equals, but the head, | |
| Screened of its laurels from the lightning’s flash, | 15 |
| Falls by some chance blow of an obscure hand, | |
| And glory cannot guard the hero’s heart | |
| Against the least knave’s dagger. | |
| Hamp. You cannot help me. | |
| Save yourself, sir; my best prayers keep you safe— | 20 |
| I fain would win as far as yonder house; | |
| It was my dear dead wife’s; such shapes are there | |
| As I would see about my dying bed, | |
| To make me sure of heaven— Forgive me, love, | |
| That I am loath to come yet to thy heart; | 25 |
| I have only lived without thee, O my best, | |
| That I might live for England! Is Cromwell come? | |
| Crom. How is it with you, cousin? | |
| Hamp. Very well; | |
| With hope to be soon better; gentle cousin, | 30 |
| I have scant time to speak and much to say, | |
| That thou must hear— Men’s eyes more clearly see, | |
| Ere the long darkness; and thus plagues, and wars, | |
| Earthquake, and overthrow of prosperous states, | |
| Have been foretold by lips of dying men, | 35 |
| Who saw their country’s end before their own; | |
| But I die happy; with a joy too keen | |
| For this weak wounded body, and delight | |
| Of eager youth that dreams of noble deeds; | |
| Knowing the greatness in thee, which occasion | 40 |
| Has not yet shown the world, and thine own self | |
| Hast only dimly guessed at— These hands I hold | |
| Shall bear the weight of England’s greatness up; | |
| Thy name, mine own dear kinsman’s, shall have sound | |
| More royal than all crownèd kings’; the slave | 45 |
| Shall murmur it in dreams of liberty, | |
| The patriot in his dungeon, and endure, | |
| The tyrant, and grow merciful for fear; | |
| And when thou hast done high and song-worthy deeds, | |
| At length shall come thy poet, whose purer eyes | 50 |
| God shall seclude from sight of our gross Earth, | |
| And for the dull light of our darker day | |
| Give all heaven to his vision, star with star | |
| Shining, and splendid and sonorous spheres | |
| To make him music; and those sacred lips, | 55 |
| More eloquent than the Mantuan’s, praising thee, | |
| Shall make thy fame a memory for all time, | |
| And set a loftier laurel on thy head | |
| Than any gathered from red fields of war; | |
| So great shall England’s great need make thee, Cromwell; | 60 |
| Whom thou forget not still to love and serve, | |
| Holding thy greatness given to make her great, | |
| Thy strength to keep her strong; then (since oblivion | |
| Is what men chiefly fear in death), dear cousin, | |
| I would not be forgotten of thy love. | 65 |
| And now I am loath the last words I shall speak | |
| Must be of strife—yet I must utter them; | |
| Be not of those that vex the angry times | |
| With meek-mouthed proffers of rejected peace; | |
| When men have set the justice of their cause | 70 |
| To sharp arbitrament of answering arms, | |
| Tougues should keep mute, and steel hold speech with steel, | |
| Till victory can plead the conquered’s cause, | |
| And make soft mercy no more dangerous. | |
| We must o’ercome our foes to make them friends.… | 75 |
| Thy hand, dear cousin … Sweet, I hear thy voice | |
| That calls me, and leave England for thy sake; | |
| Kiss me, dear love, and take my soul to God!… | |
| Receive my soul, Lord Jesus! O God, save | |
| My country— God be merciful to— | 80 |
| Crom. O Lord of Hosts, if thou wilt only give me | |
| An England with but three such Englishmen, | |
| My life shall be as noble as this man’s… | |
| Farewell, dear cousin, perfect heart that beats | |
| No more for England— Think of me in Heaven, | 85 |
| And help to make me all thou saidst I should be,— [Kneels down by the bed. Rising, and looking steadfastly at the dead body of HAMPDEN.] | |
| Yea, and I shall be. | |
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