Profane, idolatrous, popish, superstitious, If Satan were my lord, as theirs, our God Were I an enemy of my God and King And of good men, as ye are ;- I should merit Your fearful state and gilt prosperity, Which, when ye wake from the last sleep, shall turn But, as I am, I bid ye grudge me not The only earthly favour ye can yield, Or I think worth acceptance at your hands,- Even as my Master did, Until Heaven's kingdom shall descend on earth, Or earth be like a shadow in the light Of Heaven absorbed. Some few tumultuous years Laud. Officer, take the prisoner from the bar, Bastwick. While this hand holds a pen Laud. Be his hands Stop! Forbear, my lord! The tongue, which now can speak Heaven's thunder to our harm; . And hands, which now write only their own shame, With bleeding stumps might sign our blood away. Laud. Much more such "mercy" among men would be, Did all the ministers of Heaven's revenge Flinch thus from earthly retribution. I Could suffer what I would inflict. [Exit Bastwick guarded. Bring up The Lord Bishop of Lincoln.-[To Strafford] Know you not That, in distraining for ten-thousand pounds Upon his books and furniture at Lincoln, Were found these scandalous and seditious letters Sent from one Osbaldistone, who is fled? I speak it not as touching this poor person; But of the office which should make it holy, Were it as vile as it was ever spotless. Mark too, my lord, that this expression strikes Enter BISHOP WILLIAMS, guarded. Strafford. 'Twere politic and just that Williams taste The bitter fruit of his connexion with The schismatics. But you, my Lord Archbishop, Who owed your first promotion to his favour, Who grew beneath his smile Laud. Would therefore beg The office of his judge from this High Court,- All thoughts but of the service of the Church.— Williams. Peace, proud hierarch ! I know my sentence, and I own it just. Thou wilt repay me less than I deserve, In stretching to the utmost SCENE IV. HAMPDEN, PYM, CROMWELL, his Daughter, and young SIR HARRY VANE. Hampden. England, farewell! Thou, who hast been my cradle, Shalt never be my dungeon or my grave! I held what I inherited in thee As pawn for that inheritance of freedom Which thou hast sold for thy despoiler's smile : The vanes sit steady Vane. Sailing athwart St. Margaret's. Hampden. Hail, fleet herald Of tempest! that rude pilot who shall guide Hearts free as his to realms as pure as thee, Beyond the shot of tyranny, Beyond the webs of that swoln spider Beyond the curses, calumnies, and lies (?) Fair star, whose beam lies on the wide Atlantic, Oh light us to the isles of the evening land! With purest blood of noblest hearts; whose dew Of formal blasphemies; nor impious rites Wrest man's free worship, from the God who loves, This glorious clime; this firmament, whose lights Becomes a cell too narrow for the soul That owns a master; while the loathliest ward Of this wide prison, England, is a nest Of cradling peace built on the mountain-tops,— To which the eagle spirits of the free, Which range through heaven and earth, and scorn the storm Of time, and gaze upon the light of truth, Return to brood on thoughts that cannot die And cannot be repelled. Like eaglets floating in the heaven of time, SCENE V. Archy. I'll go live under the ivy that overgrows the terrace, and count the tears shed on its old roots (?), as the [wind?] plays the song of "A widow bird sate mourning [Sings] Heigho! the lark and the owl! 1822 One flies the morning, and one lulls the night : Only the nightingale, poor fond soul, Sings like the fool through darkness and light "A widow bird sate mourning for her love The frozen wind crept on above, "There was no leaf upon the forest bare, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound." XXV. LINES. I. WE meet not as we parted; We feel more than all may see; And thine full of doubt for me. II. That moment is gone for ever; Like lightning that flashed and died, III. That moment from time was singled IV. Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden 1822. V. Methinks too little cost For a moment so found, so lost |