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At the bare thought my brow doth flush with shame.—
Nay, listen, Cromwell, 'tis of thee I speak.—
So all the leaders of our civil wars,
Vane, Pym, who at a word made cities march,
Ireton, thy son-in-law, yes, Ireton,
That martyr to our rights, whom, in thy pride,
Thou exil'st to the sepulchre of kings;
And Sydney, Hollis, Martin, Bradshaw, too,
That stern-faced judge, who read the death-decree
To Charles the First; and Hampden, who so young
Went down into the grave—these laboured all
For Cromwell, undistinguished in their midst.
'Twas thou who didst ordain the funeral rites
Of the two camps, and didst despoil the dead
Upon the battle-field. These fifteen years,
The people, risen in revolt for thee,
Have liberty enjoyed to thy behoof!
In its vast interests nought hast thou seen
Save speculation; in the King's death, too,
Nought save a rich inheritance to grasp!—
'Tis not that I'd disparage thy just fame;
Not so; none but thyself could have outdone thee.
Mighty in mind, and mighty by the sword,
Thou wert so great that verily I thought
That I had found in thee my dream, my hero.
In all of Israel thee I loved the best.
And no one placed thee higher in the sky!—
And for a title, for an empty name,
A name as empty as magniloquent,
The hero, saint, apostle, sells his honour!
In his profound designs 'twas this he sought—
The purple, a vile rag: the crown, a bauble!
Cast by the tempest on the highest peak
Of power, drunken with thy destiny,