MILTON'S APPEAL TO CROMWELL

 ("Non! je n'y puis tenir.") 
 
 {CROMWELL, Act III. sc. iv.} 


 Stay! I no longer can contain myself, 
 But cry you: Look on John, who bares his mind 
 To Oliver—to Cromwell, Milton speaks! 
 Despite a kindling eye and marvel deep 
 A voice is lifted up without your leave; 
 For I was never placed at council board 
 To speak my promptings. When awed strangers come 
 Who've seen Fox-Mazarin wince at the stings 
 In my epistles—and bring admiring votes 
 Of learned colleges, they strain to see 
 My figure in the glare—the usher utters, 
 "Behold and hearken! that's my Lord Protector's 
 Cousin—that, his son-in-law—that next"—who cares! 
 Some perfumed puppet! "Milton?" "He in black— 
 Yon silent scribe who trims their eloquence!" 
 Still 'chronicling small-beer,'—such is my duty! 
 Yea, one whose thunder roared through martyr bones 
 Till Pope and Louis Grand quaked on their thrones, 
 And echoed "Vengeance for the Vaudois," where 
 The Sultan slumbers sick with scent of roses. 
 He is but the mute in this seraglio— 
 "Pure" Cromwell's Council! 
 But to be dumb and blind is overmuch! 
 Impatient Issachar kicks at the load! 
 Yet diadems are burdens painfuller, 
 And I would spare thee that sore imposition. 
 Dear brother Noll, I plead against thyself! 
 Thou aim'st to be a king; and, in thine heart, 
 What fool has said: "There is no king but thou?" 
 For thee the multitude waged war and won— 
 The end thou art of wrestlings and of prayer, 
 Of sleepless watch, long marches, hunger, tears 
 And blood prolifically spilled, homes lordless, 
 And homeless lords! The mass must always suffer 
 That one should reign! the collar's but newly clamp'd, 
 And nothing but the name thereon is changed— 
 Master? still masters! mark you not the red 
 Of shame unutterable in my sightless white? 
 Still hear me, Cromwell, speaking for your sake! 
 These fifteen years, we, to you whole-devoted, 
 Have sought for Liberty—to give it thee? 
 To make our interests your huckster gains? 
 The king a lion slain that you may flay, 
 And wear the robe—well, worthily—I say't, 
 For I will not abase my brother! 
 No! I would keep him in the realm serene, 
 My own ideal of heroes! loved o'er Israel, 
 And higher placed by me than all the others! 
 And such, for tinkling titles, hollow haloes 
 Like that around yon painted brow—thou! thou! 
 Apostle, hero, saint-dishonor thyself! 
 And snip and trim the flag of Naseby-field 
 As scarf on which the maid-of-honor's dog 
 Will yelp, some summer afternoon! That sword 
 Shrink into a sceptre! brilliant bauble! Thou, 
 Thrown on a lonely rock in storm of state, 
 Brain-turned by safety's miracle, thou risest 
 Upon the tott'ring stone whilst ocean ebbs, 
 And, reeking of no storms to come to-morrow, 
 Or to-morrow—deem that a certain pedestal 
 Whereon thou'lt be adored for e'er—e'en while 
 It shakes—o'ersets the rider! Tremble, thou! 
 For he who dazzles, makes men Samson-blind, 
 Will see the pillars of his palace kiss 
 E'en at the whelming ruin! Then, what word 
 Of answer from your wreck when I demand 
 Account of Cromwell! glory of the people 
 Smothered in ashes! through the dust thou'lt hear; 
 "What didst thou with thy virtue?" Will it respond: 
 "When battered helm is doffed, how soft is purple 
 On which to lay the head, lulled by the praise 
 Of thousand fluttering fans of flatterers! 
 Wearied of war-horse, gratefully one glides 
 In gilded barge, or in crowned, velvet car, 
 From gay Whitehall to gloomy Temple Bar—" 
 (Where—had you slipt, that head were bleaching now! 
 And that same rabble, splitting for a hedge, 
 Had joined their rows to cheer the active headsman; 
 Perchance, in mockery, they'd gird the skull 
 With a hop-leaf crown! Bitter the brewing, Noll!) 
 Are crowns the end-all of ambition? Remember 
 Charles Stuart! and that they who make can break! 
 This same Whitehall may black its front with crape, 
 And this broad window be the portal twice 
 To lead upon a scaffold! Frown! or laugh! 
 Laugh on as they did at Cassandra's speech! 
 But mark—the prophetess was right! Still laugh, 
 Like the credulous Ethiop in his faith in stars! 
 But give one thought to Stuart, two for yourself! 
 In his appointed hour, all was forthcoming— 
 Judge, axe, and deathsman veiled! and my poor eyes 
 Descry—as would thou saw'st!—a figure veiled, 
 Uplooming there—afar, like sunrise, coming! 
 With blade that ne'er spared Judas 'midst free brethren! 
 Stretch not the hand of Cromwell for the prize 
 Meant not for him, nor his! Thou growest old, 
 The people are ever young! Like her i' the chase 
 Who drave a dart into her lover, embowered, 
 Piercing the incense-clouds, the popular shaft 
 May slay thee in a random shot at Tyranny! 
 Man, friend, remain a Cromwell! in thy name, 
 Rule! and if thy son be worthy, he and his, 
 So rule the rest for ages! be it grander thus 
 To be a Cromwell than a Carolus. 
 No lapdog combed by wantons, but the watch 
 Upon the freedom that we won! Dismiss 
 Your flatterers—let no harpings, no gay songs 
 Prevent your calm dictation of good laws 
 To guard, to fortify, and keep enlinked 
 England and Freedom! Be thine old self alone! 
 And make, above all else accorded me, 
 My most desired claim on all posterity, 
 That thou in Milton's verse wert foremost of the free! 


 

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