hat Milton was thy friend?

_Crom._ Yea! with the saints,
That crowd in arm'd appeal before high Heaven
To set this nation free. He is my friend,
And England's.

_Arth._ I in Italy did know
That excellent man. Full often we have sat
Upon the white and slippery marble limb
Of some great ruin'd temple, whilst all round
Was dipp'd in the warm, lustrous atmosphere
We know not here, and purple eve did glow
With shadows soft as beds of fallen roses,
And he hath spoken in clear tones until
He built up all again, and glory's home
Grew glorious as ever. Then his voice
Would sudden deepen into holy thought
And mournful sweet philosophy, 'till all
The air grew musical and my soul good.
How well do I remember it.
Yes! Milton was
My honour'd tutor and my loving friend.

_Crom._ Came not his thoughts here often?--

_Arth._ Latterly,
He would speak much of England, and of change
Political, and coming strife and battles--

_Crom._ Ay! battles--
Hast thou not a sword, young man?
Thou should'st be friend of righteousness to know
That zealous patriot and pure-minded man,
Of whom thou spakest; surely he hath taught thee
More than mere classic lore--wisdom and faith
To help this stricken people from the thrall
Of their idolatrous, self-seeking rulers?

_Arth._ Fair sir! I know you not enough for this:
I am a stranger to these hapless broils
Between your sovereign and some of you.
Yet let me thank you for this worthless life--
Worthless indeed, could I so lightly join
So grave a cause as yours. Still deem me not
The serf of custom to uphold a wrong,
Or slave of tyrants to deny a right,
Or such a one whose brib'd and paltry soul
Aims shafts of malice at a patriot's heart,
Hating the deed he cannot estimate:
As if, when some great exile to our land
Whose lips were touched with freedom's sacred fire,
But poor in wealth as virtue's richest heir,
Came speaking of the wrongs his country bore,
Men said in youth he robb'd an orphan trust,
The proof since burnt, betray'd a trusting friend,
Haply now dead, or any other lie
So monstrous, wicked, gross, improbable,
That weak men found it easier to believe
Than the invention; while the bad in heart,
By true worth most offended, felt relief,
Protesting still they wish'd it were not so,
With that lean babble, custom's scant half-mask,
Worn uselessly by hatred.
Think me not
Of these--nor yet too rash in sympathy.
I would reflect well ere I draw the sword
To fling th