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<h2>Oliver Cromwell</h2> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> A group of men stood watching round the bed, Gazing in sadness at the lion's head, Ugly and massive, coarse, yet noble, too, Transfigured by the power shining through, The steadfast purpose, the unflinching will, Decisive, swift to save alive, or kill, As was required. Aye, and more was there; The tenderness, the pity, all the care Of one who watches o'er his fatherland, And bears upon his countenance the brand Of deep unutterable sorrow burned Into his soul, whilst he, the lesson learned That they who wield responsibility, Alas, must always compromising be; And to help on the cause they deem divine Must waver from their ever rigid line. The singleness of heart for which they pray, Doth bow before expediency each day; No longer fate allows the choice between A good or evil course—with answer clean— But rather shews two evils to be done, And they must boldly choose the lesser one. </div> <div class="stanza"> 'Tis this that makes him groan with agony, The searching question 'Is it well with me?' The question that at last must come to all [18]When at their end, they wonderingly recall This point—or that one—'Was I justified? For there—I stepped out of my way for pride And there—I stooped, perhaps, to save a friend, Or—Pity swayed me over much to bend From justice there. Yes, I have always sinned. Weak! Weak!' Have pity on him now, The valley of the shadow dews his brow! </div> <div class="stanza"> Then in a half delirium he saw A vivid pageant passing through the door, Of all the deeds that he had ever done, Good or bad judgments, battles lost or won; There, in procession wide, all who had died Under his rule, either by civil law, Or by the swifter penalty of war, Passed mournfully, their faces ghastly pale, Their gaping wounds accusingly did rail; And last of all, stately, refined, and meek, The 'Martyr King,' the obstinate and weak, The strangest mixture England ever saw Upon her throne (And yet, poor man, he wore His crown with piteous regal dignity, Whilst from his hands there slowly dripped the blood Of countless thousands who in loyalty Perished beneath his vacillating mood). [19]Then from those twitching lips there fell again 'Have I done well?' The agonizing pain Was clear to those around his bed, and one Answered, astonished, with beseeching tone: 'But surely, General, you have done well, You over all of us have done most well.' </div> <div class="stanza"> But Cromwell with a twisted smile replied 'No!'—as he fought for breath—'I—only—tried!' Then closed his eyes, smiled quietly, and died. [20]</div> </div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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