And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within-
All else was calm and still.

The grim Geneva ministers

With anxious scowl drew near,

As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.

He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,

And veil'd his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,

And cast his cloak away:

For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.

A beam of light fell o'er him,

Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climb'd the lofty ladder

As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;

And no man dar'd to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan ;
And darkness swept across the sky –
The work of death was done!

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL

JOHN MILTON

THE monarchy was abolished after the execution of the king, and a republic was attempted with Oliver Cromwell at its head. His task was one of supreme difficulty. Prince Charles had been proclaimed king by the Scotch and the conquest of England attempted. The victories of Dunbar (September 3, 1850) and Worcester (September 3, 1651) put an end to this enterprise, but an even more serious danger grew out of dissensions among the republicans themselves. Parliamentarians, Presbyterians, Puritans, and Levellers were advocating their various schemes for the regulation of church and government, and each party was endeavoring to force the acceptance of its opinions upon the distracted state. Cromwell complained that Parliament did nothing but " overturn and overturn." He was obliged to resort to tyrannical measures in order to maintain his authority.

Cromwell, our chief of men, who, through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,

Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crownèd fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwin stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than War; new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY

Not only in Scotland but in England as well, men were shocked by the execution of the king and by the arbitrary methods of the Commonwealth. The moderates came to believe that the only hope for law and order lay in the restoration of the monarchy, and they were willing to make every sacrifice for Prince Charles, the next heir to the throne.

Here's the gold cup all bossy with satyrs and saints, And my race-bowl (now, women, no whining and plaints!)

From the paltriest spoon to the costliest thing,
We'll melt it all down for the use of the king.

Here's the chalice stamp'd over with sigil and cross,
Some day we'll make up to the chapel the loss.
Now bring me my father's great emerald ring,
For I'll melt down the gold for the good of the king.

And bring me the casket my mother has got,
And the jewels that fall to my Barbara's lot;
Then dry up your eyes and do nothing but sing,
For we're helping to coin the gold for the king.

This dross we'll transmute into weapons of steel, Temper'd blades for the hand, sharpest spurs for the heel;

And when Charles, with a shout, into London we bring, We'll be glad to remember this deed for the king.

Bring the hawk's silver bells and the nursery spoon, The crucible's ready — we're nothing too soon;

For I hear the horse neigh that shall carry the thing
That'll bring up a smile in the eyes of the king.

There go my old spurs, and the old silver jug, —
'Twas just for a moment a pang and a tug;
But now I am ready to dance and to sing,

To think I've thrown gold in the chest of my king.

The earrings lose shape, and the coronet too,
I feel my eyes dim with a sort of a dew.
Hurrah for the posset dish! Everything
Shall run into bars for the use of the king.

That spoon is a sword, and this thimble a pike;
It's but a week's garret in London belike
Then a dash at Whitehall, and the city shall ring
With the shouts of the multitude bringing the king.

THE THREE TROOPERS

DURING THE PROTECTORATE

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY

MEN resented the tyranny of the Protector more than that of a king born to the throne. The country gentry, especially, whose sympathies were aristocratic and who had nothing to hope from the Puritans, hated Cromwell and plotted his overthrow.

Into the Devil tavern

Three booted troopers strode,

From spur to feather spotted and splash'd
With the mud of a winter road.

In each of their cups they dropp'd a crust,
And star'd at the guests with a frown;

Then drew their swords, and roar'd for a toast, "God send this Crum-well-down!"

A blue smoke rose from their pistol locks,
Their sword blades were still wet,

There were long red smears on their jerkins of buff,

As the table they overset.

Then into their cups they stirr'd the crusts,

And curs'd old London town;

They wav'd their swords, and drank with a stamp,

66

'God send this Crum-well-down!"

The 'prentice dropp'd his can of beer,
The host turn'd pale as a clout;
The ruby nose of the toping squire

Grew white at the wild men's shout.

Then into their cups they flung the crusts,
And show'd their teeth with a frown;
They flash'd their swords as they gave the toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

The gambler dropp'd his dog's-ear'd cards,
The waiting-women scream'd,

As the light of the fire, like stains of blood,

On the wild men's sabres gleam'd.

Then into their cups they splash'd the crusts,
And curs'd the fool of a town,

And leap'd on the table, and roar'd a toast,
"God send this Crum-well-down!"

Till on a sudden fire-bells rang,

And the troopers sprang to horse;