SCENE.-A tent in the Parliamentary camp. HAMPDEN lies wounded, and CROMWELL is bending over him.
Hampden. Spare all who yield; alas, that we must pierce
One English heart for England!
Cromwell. How he raves!
The fever is at height.
Hamp. I thank you, sir.
My wound is nothing; a little loss of blood;
I fear much more must flow from worthier veins
Ere England’s hurt be healed.
Crom. How powerful are base things to destroy!
The brute’s part in them kills the god’s in us,
And robs the world of many glorious deeds;
In all the histories of famous men
We never find the greatest overthrown
Of such as were their equals, but the head,
Screened of its laurels from the lightning’s flash,
Falls by some chance blow of an obscure hand,
And glory cannot guard the hero’s heart
Against the least knave’s dagger.
Hamp. You cannot help me.
Save yourself, sir; my best prayers keep you safe-
I fain would win as far as yonder house;
It was my dear dead wife’s; such shapes are there
As I would see about my dying bed,
To make me sure of heaven- Forgive me, love,
That I am loath to come yet to thy heart;
I have only lived without thee, O my best,
That I might live for England! Is Cromwell come?
Crom. How is it with you, cousin?
Hamp. Very well;
With hope to be soon better; gentle cousin,
I have scant time to speak and much to say,
That thou must hear- Men’s eyes more clearly see,
Ere the long darkness; and thus plagues, and wars,
Earthquake, and overthrow of prosperous states,
Have been foretold by lips of dying men,
Who saw their country’s end before their own;
But I die happy; with a joy too keen
For this weak wounded body, and delight
Of eager youth that dreams of noble deeds;
Knowing the greatness in thee, which occasion
Has not yet shown the world, and thine own self
Hast only dimly guessed at- These hands I hold
Shall bear the weight of England’s greatness up;
Thy name, mine own dear kinsman’s, shall have sound
More royal than all crown
(Pakenham Thomas Beatty)
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