Poems (Cromwell)/The Actor-Soldier
THE ACTOR-SOLDIER
On the grass I'm lying, My blanket is the sky; This feeling is called dying.
No one will testify They saw me suffer this;—There's no one passing by.
The wonder of it is, I'm by myself at last With plain realities.
No one is here to cast A part for me to play; My term of life is past.
No one is here to see How I can meet and take This end;—how gallantly—
Though the ice that binds a lake Must weigh less heavily Than Death to my soul awake.
I must have thirsted, indeed, For pity, then love, then praise; For to win them, in every deed, I endeavoured all my days.
The Soldier and the Son Were my seductive parts; But I could act the clown,—Draw laughter from dumb hearts.
The Soldier part was my best,— 'Twas my last and my favourite. Every gift that I possessed I displayed for their benefit. Who are They? On my breast Weighs the infinite.
Ah, yes, I appeared heroic, Unflinching, true and brave; I wore the look of a stoic;—All hurts I forgave.
But now on the grass I turn To ease a little the pain; It is not too late to learn.
Last night I lay in the rain Until my body was numb, Hearing like a refrain:
"O Masquerader, come!"And even like a drum It beat into my brain: "O Masquerader, come!"