Thou art of us. Thy heart, thy tongue, thy sword.
Are ours--now good night! [_With emotion._]
Sir, this poor land
Needs all her honest children--noble sorrow,
And yet a cheerful spirit to assert
The truth of right, yea! God's eternal truth,
Lest the world die a foolish sacrifice
And perish flaming in the night of space,
An atheist torch to warn the universe--
Smile not, I pray thee. We meet soon; farewell!

[_Exit CROMWELL, L._]

_Arth._ A rude and uncurb'd martialist!--and yet
A God-intoxicated man. 'Tis not
A hypocrite, too haggard is his face,
Too deep and harsh his voice. His features wear
No soft, diluted, and conventional smile
Of smirk content; befitting lords, and dukes,
Not men of nature's honoured stamp and wear--
How fervently he spake
Of Milton. Strange, what feeling is abroad!
There is an earnest spirit in these times,
That makes men weep--dull, heavy men, else born
For country sports, to slip into their graves,
When the mild season of their prime had reach'd
Mellow decay, whose very being had died
In the same breeze that bore their churchyard toll,
Without a memory, save in the hearts
Of the next generation, their own heirs,