  Not dim and shadowy, like a world of dreams, We summon back the past Cromwellian time, Raised from the dead by invocative rhyme, Albeit this no Booke of Magick seems: Now,—while few questions of the fleeting hour Cease to perplex, or task th’ unwilling mind,— Lest party-strife our better-Reason blind To the dread evils waiting still on Power. We see Old England torn by civil wars, Oppress’d by gloomy zealots—men whose chain More galled because of Regicidal stain, Hiding from view all honourable scars: We see how those who raved for Liberty, Claiming the Law’s protection ’gainst the King, Trampled themselves on Law, and strove to bring On their own nation tenfold Slavery. So that with iron hand, with eagle eye, Stout Oliver Protector scarce could keep The troubled land in awe; while mutterings deep Threatened to swell the later rallying cry. Well had he probed the hollow friends who stood Distrustful of him, though their tongues spoke praise; Well read their fears, that interposed delays To rob him of his meed for toil and blood. A few brief years of such uneasy strife, While foreign shores and ocean own his sway; Then fades the lonely Conqueror away, Amid success, weary betimes of life. So passing, kingly in his soul, uncrown’d, With dark forebodings of th’ approaching storm, He leaves the spoil at mercy of the swarm Of beasts unclean and vultures gathering round. For soon from grasp of Richard Cromwell slips Semblance of power he ne’er had strength to hold; And wolves each other tear, who tore the fold, While lurid twilight mocks the State’s eclipse. Then, from divided counsels, bitter snarls, Deceit and broken fealty, selfish aim— Where promptitude and courage win the game,— Self-scattered fall they; and up mounts KING CHARLES. J. W. E. June 1st, 1876. |
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