 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
210
CROMWELL
To E. K. Chambers.
Now, on his last of ways,
The great September star,
That crowned him on the days
Of Worcester and Dunbar,
Shines through the menacing night afar.
The great September star,
That crowned him on the days
Of Worcester and Dunbar,
Shines through the menacing night afar.
This day, his England knows
Freedom and fear in one;
She holds her breath, while goes
Her mighty mastering son:
His sceptre-sword its work hath done.
Freedom and fear in one;
She holds her breath, while goes
Her mighty mastering son:
His sceptre-sword its work hath done.
O crowning mercy, Death!
Peace to the stormy heart,
Peace to the passionate breath,
And awful eyes: their part
Is done, for thou their victor art!
Peace to the stormy heart,
Peace to the passionate breath,
And awful eyes: their part
Is done, for thou their victor art!
Yet, is it peace with him?
Answer, O Drogheda's dead!
O ghosts, beside the dim
Waters and shadows dread!
What of his coming shall be said?
Answer, O Drogheda's dead!
O ghosts, beside the dim
Waters and shadows dread!
What of his coming shall be said?
Answer, O fatal King!
Whose sad, prophetic eyes
Foresaw his glory bring
Thy death! He also lies
Dead: hath he peace, O King of sighs?
Whose sad, prophetic eyes
Foresaw his glory bring
Thy death! He also lies
Dead: hath he peace, O King of sighs?
211
His soul's most secret thought,
Eternal Light declares:
He, who in darkness wrought,
To very Truth now bares
All hidden hopes, all deep despairs.
Eternal Light declares:
He, who in darkness wrought,
To very Truth now bares
All hidden hopes, all deep despairs.
Maintains he in Death's land
The quarrel of the Lord,
As when from his live hand
Leaped lightnings of the sword?
Is Come, good servant! his reward?
The quarrel of the Lord,
As when from his live hand
Leaped lightnings of the sword?
Is Come, good servant! his reward?
Hath the word come, Well done!
Or the pure word of doom,
Sending him from the sun
To walk in bitter gloom,
With the lost angels of the tomb?
Or the pure word of doom,
Sending him from the sun
To walk in bitter gloom,
With the lost angels of the tomb?
Prince of the iron rod
And war's imperious mail,
Did he indeed for God
Fight ever, and prevail,
Bidding the Lord of hosts All Hail?
And war's imperious mail,
Did he indeed for God
Fight ever, and prevail,
Bidding the Lord of hosts All Hail?
Or was it ardent lust
Of majesty and might,
That stung and fired and thrust
His soul into the fight:
Mystic desire and fierce delight?
Of majesty and might,
That stung and fired and thrust
His soul into the fight:
Mystic desire and fierce delight?
Nay, peace for ever more!
O martyred souls! He comes,
Your conquered conqueror:
No tramplings now, nor drums,
Are his, who wrought your martyrdoms.
O martyred souls! He comes,
Your conquered conqueror:
No tramplings now, nor drums,
Are his, who wrought your martyrdoms.
212
Tragic, triumphant form,
He comes to your dim ways,
Comes upon wings of storm:
Greet him, with pardoning praise,
With marvelling awe, with equal gaze!
He comes to your dim ways,
Comes upon wings of storm:
Greet him, with pardoning praise,
With marvelling awe, with equal gaze!
1895.
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