the rapture of a squeaking fiddle,
Think you 'tis well? Oh, say, should Englishmen
Arrive at this, such price to set on art,
Ne'er rivalling the untaught nightingale,
That with their ears shut to wild misery,
Deaf to starvation's groans, the prayer of want,
The giant moan of hunger o'er the land,
Till the sky darken with the face of angels,
God's smiling ministers, averted—then!
To buy a male soprano they should give
His price in gold, that peach-fed lords and dames
Might have their senses tickled with the trills
Evolv'd from a soft, tumid, warbling throat—
Why then farewell to England and her glory!

Crom. Methinks the end of all things should be near, When that doth happen!

Arth. Did I hear aright That Milton was thy friend?

Crom. Yea! with the saints,
That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven
To set this nation free. He is my friend,
And England's.

Arth. I in Italy did know
That excellent man. Full often we have sat
Upon the white and slippery marble limb
Of some great ruin'd temple, whilst all round
Was dipp'd in the warm, lustrous atmosphere
We know not here, and purple eve did glow
With shadows soft as beds of fallen roses,
And he hath spoken in clear tones until
He built up all again, and glory's home
Grew glorious as ever. Then his voice
Would sudden deepen into holy thought
And mournful sweet philosophy, 'till all
The air grew musical and my soul good.
How well do I remember it.
Yes! Milton was
My honour'd tutor and my loving friend.

Crom. Came not his thoughts here often?—

Arth. Latterly, He would speak much of England, and of change Political, and coming strife and battles—

Crom. Ay! battles—
Hast thou not a sword, young man?
Thou should'st be friend of righteousness to know
That zealous patriot and pure-minded man,
Of whom thou spakest; surely he hath taught thee
More than mere classic lore—wisdom and faith
To help this stricken people from the thrall
Of their idolatrous, self-seeking rulers?

Arth. Fair sir! I know you not enough for this:
I am a stranger to these hapless broils
Between your sovereign and some of you.
Yet let me thank you for this worthless life—
Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join
So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not
The serf of custom to uphold a wrong,
Or slave of tyrants to deny a right,
Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul
Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart,
Hating the deed he cannot estimate:
As if, when some great exile to our land
Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire,
But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir,
Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore,
Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust,
The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend,
Haply now dead, or any other lie
So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable,
That weak men found it easier to believe
Than the invention; while the bad in heart,
By true worth most offended, felt relief,
Protesting still they wish'd it were not so,
With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask,
Worn uselessly by hatred.
Think me not
Of these—nor yet too rash in sympathy.
I would reflect well ere I draw the sword
To fling the sheath away; I bid you now
A kind farewell.

Crom. Full soon to meet array'd
In arms, the instruments of Heaven together
Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword.
Are ours—now good night! [With emotion.]
Sir, this poor land
Needs all her honest children—noble sorrow,
And yet a cheerful spirit to assert
The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth,
Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice
And perish flaming in the night of space,
An atheist torch to warn the universe—
Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell!

[Exit CROMWELL, L.]

Arth. A rude and uncurb'd martialist!—and yet
A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not
A hypocrite, too haggard is his face,
Too deep and harsh his voice. His features wear
No soft, diluted, and conventional smile
Of smirk content; befitting lords, and dukes,
Not men of nature's honoured stamp and wear—
How fervently he spake
Of Milton. Strange, what feeling is abroad!
There is an earnest spirit in these times,
That makes men weep—dull, heavy men, else born
For country sports, to slip into their graves,
When the mild season of their prime had reach'd
Mellow decay, whose very being had died
In the same breeze that bore their churchyard toll,
Without a memory, save in the hearts
Of the next generation, their own heirs,
When they in turn grew old and thought of dying—
Even such men as these now gird themselves
With swords and Bibles, and, nought doubting, rush
Into the world's undying chronicles!
This struggle hath in it a solemn echo
Of the old world, when God was present still
In fiery columns, burning oracles:
Ere earnest faith and new reality
Had grown diluted, fading from the earth
Through feeble ages of a mock existence,
Whose Heaven and Hell were but as outer fables,
That trouble not man's stage-like dream of life.

[Exit into the Inn.]

END OF ACT I.