But yearning unaccountable me caught

At heart; which seem'd as it would madly burst
The steely curb, my guarded breast that bound.
And I beheld the white form seek the tomb
That clos'd around, as that last sweetest link
That knit my spirit to the cheerless world.—
When lo! I winc'd, as if my name were spoke
In some sinister unsuspected place;

And straight was swiftly chang'd the hurrying scene,
To stately tumult, maze methodical,

The spectacle august of royalty,

Some Emperor of high and mighty note,

Earth'd amid awful ritual and pomp.

And as the splendour dimm'd, and twilight reign'd,

Beyond the apparition, I perceiv'd

The troublous wave of banners in the air,

And evil times, and medley mix of swords :

And in the front a naked steed, like that
My courser dear in Naseby's helpful field,
His noble head most piteously droop'd,

And mane luxuriant swept th' eclipsed ground;
Where as the waning light more hideous grew,
Methought amid the thicken'd air I spied

Strange shapes that hover'd from the charnel cells,
And birds of dismal'st omen, cruel goules,

That violate the dead man's sacred sleep:

And further had I seen

MRS. CLAYPOLE.

O my sweet sire!

My gracious lord, I pray thee turn thy bent

From themes like these, precarious, vain, and wild,
That do not profit; but to present woe
Heap heavier load of bad imagin'd things.

But now to action :-much I merit blame

For that let slip my treacherous memory,
This mail despatchful: tender'd while thou slept,
And in surprise awak'dst, while I entic'd

With my untimely prate, thy free discourse.

(Gives a sealed despatch from Piedmont, which the Protector reads, not without emotion.)

Alas! I thought to lure thee out of care,
In vain, I fear: there's murky doubt within
That sheet, and straining cark upon thy lip.

CROMWELL.

See, see! where will the silly lambs* be safe,

* Protestants of the valleys.

:

And creep from piecemeal, and pursuing spoil
Mark, how the cruel Popedom stirs itself,
And heaps fresh dolour on our bleeding breasts.

MRS. CLAYPOLE.

(Lifting up both hands, having dropt the paper.)

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not; in thy book record their groans,

Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold,
Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks. The moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth

sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow

A hundred fold, who having learnt thy way,

Early may fly the Babylonian woe.*

CROMWELL.

The smiling infant, wrenched from the breast,
And chang'd, O pitying heaven! a headless corse :—
Flagitiousness unparallel'd, unknown :

By ruthfullest of fell mankind reserv'd
For Papacy's demoniac stretch of sin.
Accursed, filthy vulture!* gorg'd with hearts
Of little young things: I will wind a mesh
Thy sweepy wings around, will toil thee so,
Thou'lt henceforth roll thy sordid eyes in vain.
O man of sin! fulfil thy mete of guilt
Until it irk the weary sky to stay

The mutter'd thunder.

Brother meek of France ;+

We shall take special leave, in courtesy,
T' undo thy petty fing'ring of this broil :
Or make our claim known at the Paris gates,
With such a hatch of English at our back,
As once did topple off thy golden crown.‡
Now do they rate me for some sapling soft,

* The Popedom.

French troops had been employed in the persecution.
In days of Henry V. of England.

T

A reed—a rush-a trash to spit upon ;

That in the view of all beholding eyes,

They, with the fragments of my friends, me front, And dare me with this matchless feat of hell.

So I'm a man of peace ;-'tis false I'm born
To eye the reeling column in the fray,
And smite, smite, till my ruby blade be brimm'd,
And drunk with slaughter :-O, if I must whet
The sword of England once, and bearding gripe
This
puny Dukedom!* heaven do so to me,
And more, if I shall leave him but a man

To sob the history.

Unheard of curse!

The blood of girls soaks the trackless snows:-
Peace, peace! O what have I to do with thee?+
Now is my soul on fire and welcome war,
Heady and headstrong, as in days of yore,

Ten thousand fold swol'n up! too long I sleep,
And dream o'er this abyss of treachery.

Come then, and tutor me, thou Minister
Of wrath and doom!t that at the dead of night,

*

The Duke of Savoy, agent in the massacre.

+ Peace had hitherto been the policy of the Protectorate. + Destroying Angel.