With flash of whirling foam the tempest’s scowl,
To souls untam’d as they, roar Freedom!
[Crosses the Stage.] Ay! 
Thus to escape remorse—­
Leaving this work to God and to His will,
That I perchance too rashly made mine own,
And noble hearts had follow’d and I had sav’d
Her, so soon lost for ever!  Is not this
A thought had madden’d Brutus, though all Rome
Did hail him saviour, while the Capitol
Rock’d, like a soul-stirr’d Titan, to its base
With their free acclamation?—­

Mil. Was there not Another Brutus?—­

Crom. Tell me not of Rome! 
Why speak not of the warriors of the forest
Where I had gone, but for black destiny! 
They triumph in the torture of their kind,
Their grinning honour must be stain’d with blood;
’Tis their religion to be feelingless. 
Why dost not lead me through yon corridor
To gaze upon some hawk-nos’d effigy,
And say, “This Roman slew his friend, his brother,
His daughter—­’Twas a great soul, and he liv’d
A thousand years ago, and this is reason
For thy warm daughter’s death—­that breathes and speaks
With dainty actions nestling round thy heart,
Woven in thine existence”—­her, I priz’d
More than the rest, whose gentle voice was as
The harp of David to my gloomy soul—­
Go! thou art wise; but here thy skill is folly!

Mil. I little dreamt, my lord! to hear you speak
So wildly and so sadly of the course
Of your most virtuous and ennobling deeds. 
Think not I do not mourn the angel light
That beam’d upon your path, soon haply fled,
Flushing the sky with rosy winnowings
Of dove-like wings, a Spirit, to the God
Who gave her thee, and so recalls.  She is
A pure devoted woman, and thy child—­
Thus far I understand thy soul’s repinings. 
But so to start as shaken by a dream
From an unquiet couch, to grope in night
And wailing darkness, thus to storm and rave,
To mock the God of battles and thy might;
To let the rod that scourg’d the pestilent land
Fall from thy tender hold—­I had not thought
Of this, and I had rather died than see it. 
True thou wert less than father, more than man
To bear no sorrow.  Yet should England soar
Far, far above the sad domestic grave
Of Cromwell’s dearest love of kin or kind;
And the big tear, that in the eye will gather,
In him should only halo freedom’s sun
With brighter lustre, holier radiance.

Crom. Speak on, the passion passes.  Yet be kind,
Read not thy lesson sternly; for in grief
There is much tumult and forgetfulness. 
When my son died ’twas different; though his death
Went to my heart, indeed it did, a son
That might have wielded England’s destinies;
And now I cannot look beyond the night
Of mine own day (it is late evening with me
Already) for a soul to guide this people. 
How bravely bare I his young, glorious death,
And when one died at Marston afterward,
I wrote his father bidding him rejoice,
And something boasted of mine own bereavement,
I said, “Forget your private sorrow, sir,
In this late public mercy, victory
Unto the saints.”  O bitter fool, to chide
A father so, when I might lose my daughter!