This Cromwell 's by his fortune stricken blind;
As 'twere an Attila made by a Machiavel.
Did he himself not aid us, our vain wrath
Would spend itself in efforts profitless
To undermine his power 'mongst the people.
'Tis he alone who hath himself undone
By understanding not that he hath changed
The ground whereon his feet were wont to rest;
That from his natal soil if he comes forth,
'Tis but to die; and that, when he is king,
No longer is he more than a mere man.
As one who 's dead, he doth expose himself
To blows from every side. The multitude,
His bulwark once, comes now to swell our ranks;
Alone he signs the fatal ordinance
That sunders them. In giving us the people
He gives to us the source of his great power.
Oppressed, downtrodden, they are fain to be,
But always in accordance with the law,
By a protector, never by a king.
To a plebeian tyrant in good time
The people may become enured. Though he
Were wickeder than Herod, Oliver
As lord protector seems to them to be
The only man whose uncrowned brow can bear
The ever-varying burden of the state.
But let that brow assume the diadem,
And all is changed; no longer is he aught
In this good people's eyes, who love him well,
Save a king's head, the headsman's destined spoil.
Well said.
Joyce.Our swords to-day have left their scabbards;
