[110] Cromwell’s letzte Nacht.

     Mir sagt’s nicht nur des Arztes ernste Miene,
Selbst fühl’ ich’s, meine...

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 ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd fortune proud
Hast reared God’s trophies, and his...

Poet: John Milton
Poet:

Cromwell is dead, and risen; and dead again,

And risen the third time after he was slain

No wonder! For he’s messenger of Hell:

And now he buffets us, now posts to tell

What’s past; and for one more game new counsel takes
...

Poet: