[110] Cromwell’s letzte Nacht.
Mir sagt’s nicht nur des Arztes ernste Miene,
Selbst fühl’ ich’s, meine Stunden sind gezählt.
Der tolle Traum, der mich vom Lager schreckte,
Er war nicht...
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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 work pursued,
While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots inbued,
And Dunbar field... -
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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
Of his good friend the Devil, who keeps the stakes.