came of him.

_Flor._ The silent marches of the stars had clos'd
The slow retreat of that calm summer noon,
Ere I compos'd his gentle limbs to rest,
And left him where he lay. No crimson wound,
No dark ensanguin'd stain did sully him:
Yet had some fatal missile reach'd his heart,
That bled, as mine does now, within, within!

_Lady Crom._ How sad a tale; yet; all will still be well.
Yield not to this wild burst of agony.

_Flor._ O, I was happy and I knew it not,
But jested with the heart that lov'd me well.
The sickening echo of each foolish word
I said to pain him comes to torture me--

_Lady Crom._ Cease, cease! Indeed my heart is sad enough.
My daughter needs us.

_Flor._ O forgive me, Madam!
My grief seem'd thoughtless of another's woe,
And I that love her so?--I'll go with you
This instant, watch by her, and pray for all
This most unhappy world. Come, let us seek her--
Haste! Will she know me, think you? Lean on me,
You are fatigued with watching. I am strong.

[_Exeunt, U.E.R._]

_Enter CROMWELL alone, R._

_Crom._ How well he died, that liv'd not well--his words
Strike cold here. Kings have died ere now, whose lives
Were needless, hurtful to their people's good,
But none so meek as this. O Cromwell! Cromwell!
Hast thou done well! O could an angel light
The deepest corner of thy secret mind,
And tell thee thou'rt not damned to Hell for this,
The avenging act of horror--or that, inspir'd,
Thou wert the minister of Heaven's decree,
And that ambition drugg'd not thy design
With soul-consuming poison! I, this I,
Have done it--for what!--Which is't? To live and reign?
Or crown the smiling land with good? Well, both!
If I have sinn'd, it was at least for all.
The puny stripling calls not his love, lust:
The passions that we have in us may blend
With noble purpose and with high design;
Else men who saw the world had gone astray
Would only wish it better--and lie down,
In vain regret to perish.--
How his head
Roll'd on the platform with deep, hollow sound!
Methinks I hear it now, and through my brain
It vibrates like the storm's accusing knell,
Making the guilty quake. I am not guilty!
It was the nation's voice, the headsman's axe.
Why drums it then within my throbbing ear?--
I slew him not!

_Enter PEARSON, L._

_Pear._ My Lord! there is one here
Would speak with you--

_Crom._ Admit him. Am I not
The servant of this country, to see all
That come to me?--

[_PEARSO