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 Thy head thou wouldst encircle with the vain Forgotten splendour of our former kings; Tremble! when one is dazzled, one is blind. Of Cromwell, Oliver, I summon thee To give account; and of thy glory, too, Which has become our shame! What hast thou done, Old man, with thy young virtue? To thyself Thou said'st: "'Tis sweet, when one has fought and won, To fall asleep upon the throne, engirt With homage; to be king in very truth; To spread one's features broadcast through the land. One has one's levee; in a chariot One goes to sit in state at Westminster, To pray at Temple Bar; one traverses The servile crowd with a resplendent train; One listens to harangues by aldermen; One bears the royal emblems on his crest."— Is that all, Cromwell?—Think on Charles the First. Dar'st thou take up the crown from out his blood, And with his scaffold build thyself a throne? What! Cromwell, wouldest thou, in truth, be king? Canst think of it? Dost thou not fear a day When, clad in mourning garb, this same Whitehall, Wherein thy grandeur doth disport itself, Shall once again its fatal window ope?— Ah! thou dost laugh! But hast thou in thy star Such confidence entire? Remember Charles! Bethink thyself! When that king was to die, When ready was the axe, his head was severed By a masked headsman. King although he was, He died before the eyes of all his people Friendless, nor knew who cut his thread of life. By the same road thou'rt marching to thy doom, And with a mask thy future, too, is veiled.