University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.—The Western Entrance to Westminster Abbey.

Leicester and Cornwall, John of Salisbury, Herbert of Bosham. Beyond is a crowd waiting outside the Abbey, within which the monks of St. Augustine's at Canterbury have just made election of Thomas à Becket to the Primacy.
Her.
Augustine's chair! The greatest that which England
Can yield her greatest—save a happy death.
Thomas can stand the trial. Praise to God!
The man I love stands honoured.

John of Sal.
England's honoured!
Thomas is English wholly—Saxon half;
A scion of that ancient, healthful stock
Which fell on Hastings' field; first English-born
Who for five reigns hath swayed Augustine's staff.
King Harold, have thy joy!

Leic.
Our king is wise;
King Henry, of that name the first, espoused
A daughter of the Saxon line, Matilda,
That English blood with Norman mixed thenceforth
Might comfort English hearts. King Henry's grandson
Walks in his grandsire's steps.

Corn.
With better luck,
Pray God! than Beauclerk's—the Investitures;—
Anselm, the primate, fought that battle hard,
Stretching from exile a lean, threatening arm,
And won it more than half. At Bec he lies,
Or England ne'er had slept. I think he sleeps not;
I think that in his grave the stern old monk,
Who looked so meek and mild, keeps vigil still,
Muttering of simony and sins of princes.
The king did well to choose a citizen's son:
'Tis that which makes this brutish city loud;
Yet safer far had been a humbler choice—
Becket hath Norman blood.

Leic.
What matters that?
Norman and Saxon daily blend in England:
The king is neither. Sir, he's Angevine:
His faithfullest subjects we; not less we know him
Of alien race, an alien emperor
Who counts our England one 'mid subject realms,
And seldom sees her face. Remember, Cornwall,
That, when that earlier Henry sware, new-crowned,
To grant this land once more the laws of Alfred,
Not Saxon churl alone desired the boon,
But Norman knight no less. Forget not this:
Matilda—how unlike her empress-daughter!—
Was saint with either race, and won her lord
To hold his parliaments. The king and she
Walked side by side when Alfred's bones were moved
From Newminster to Hyde.

Corn.
'Tis true; this Becket
Shares not the scandal of that foreign brood
Which swarms through all the realm's great offices;
Preys on our lands. A Norman was his sire;
Some say his mother was an Asian princess,
Who loved that father chained in Holy Land,
Loosed him, and with him fled.

Leic.
Likelier I deem it
She cut her flaxen Saxon tresses short,
And followed him to Syria, garbed a page,
With cross upon her shoulder, and a heart
Made strong by maiden love.

John of Sal.
Brave legends both!
They mean that Becket's great. Whate'er hath greatness
Kindles some glittering legend round its way
Through the gross ether of the popular mind.
Becket's a man!

Corn.
A merchant's son—not noble!

John of Sal.
Patriarch is he of nobles, not their son—
The nobles 'mid the shepherds of Christ's flock:
Let that suffice.

Leic.
Whate'er his race, 'twas merit
Raised Becket's head. But three months chancellor,
He scourged those boors of Flanders from the realm;
Shook down the bandits' towers above the builders:
So plainly his desert shone forth, that Envy
Bit her own tongue reviling him. Great knights
Flocked to his standard; sons of nobles stood
His pages in the splendour of his halls.
His ways were royal: when he crossed the seas
To vindicate 'gainst France our England's name,
Six ships of his own building with him sailed,
And sixteen hundred warriors ate his bread;
The chivalry of Aquitaine and Anjou,
Of Scotland, Brittany, yea, England's self,
Stared at the steel-mailed cleric.

Her.
Sir, a deacon—
A deacon only, not a priest.

Leic.
Once more
I see that French knight, Engelramme de Trie,
Upon the red field rolling—

[Gilbert Foliot, attended by John of Oxford, issues from the Abbey.
Corn.
Hush! here's Gilbert—
I hate that sallow face and inward eye—
And, with him, John of Oxford, courtier-priest,
That, round and ready, slips and slides through all things,
And ever upward works. Leicester, come hence!
To Rouen next: we'll bring the king the tidings.

[Cornwall and Leicester depart.
Gil.
A cure miraculous, John, the king has worked;
Touches a soldier, and a bishop rises!
The hand that cures the evil gives the staff!

John of Oxf.
My lord, the staff is given; the evil, long,
Transferred not cured, shall plague the heart of England.

Gil.
I note in yonder man a strength resistless;
A strength for ill. In washing of the dirt
From off the Church, he'll wash the Church to nothing.
I preached against her sins: there were who said
I bit them hard; he'll rend away the rags
With shreds of flesh adhering. Next, he'll loose
The spiritual body from the secular clutch;—
Let princes look to that.

John of Oxf.
Becket lacks patience;
Victory half won, he'll dash himself to death.

Gil.
There's in him strength to wrest from death itself
Victory stone-cold. I go: abide and watch!

[Gilbert passes on.
1st Man-at-arms.

2nd Man-at-arms.

1st Man-at-arms.

2nd Man-at-arms.
[They pass on.

Scene II.—A House in London.

Becket, Herbert of Bosham.
Bec.
A heavy weight, good Herbert, and a sudden!

Her.
My lord, it came from heaven; what need we more?
Who sent the weight will send the strength. That bard
Whose Trojan legend was the old world's Bible
Clothed his best Greek with armour from the gods,
And o'er the field it bore him like a wind.
What meant that armour? Duty! O my lord,
The airy gauds that deck us, these depress us:
The divine burthen and the weight from God
Uplift us and sustain.

Bec.
Herbert! my Herbert!
High visions, mine in youth, upbraid me now:
I dreamed of sanctities redeemed from shame;
Abuses crushed; all sacred offices
Reserved for spotless hands. Again I see them;
I see God's realm so bright each English home
Sharing that glory basks amid its peace;
I see the clear flame on the poor man's hearth
From God's own altar lit; the angelic childhood;
The chaste, strong youth; the reverence of white hairs:—
'Tis this Religion means. O Herbert! Herbert!
We must secure her this! Her rights, the lowest
Shall in my hand be safe. I will not suffer
The pettiest stone in castle, grange, or mill,
The humblest clod of English earth, one time
A fief of my great mother, Canterbury,
To rest a caitiff's booty. Herbert, Herbert,
Had I foreseen, with what a vigilant care
Had I built up my soul! The fall from greatness
Had tried me less severely. Many a time
I said, ‘From follies of these courts and camps
Reverse will scourge me homeward to my God;
He'll ne'er forego me till I grow to Christian!’
Lo! greatness comes, not judgment.

Her.
It may be
That God hath sent you both in one. Fear nought!
At Paris first, and after at Bologna,
You learned the Church's lore.

Bec.
I can be this,
The watch-dog keeping safe his master's door
Though knowing but little of the stores within:
I'll do my best to learn. Give we, each day,
Six hours to sacred studies! Ah! you smile;
You note once more the boaster. Friend, 'tis true,
Our penitence itself doth need repentance;
Our humbleness hath in it blots of pride.
Hark to that truant's song! We celibates
Are strangely captured by this love of children
Nature's revenge—say, rather, compensation.
The king will take him hence: God's will be done!
I lose my pupil, and become your pupil;
A humble one; no more.
High saint of God, or doctor of the Church,
'Twere late for that; yet something still remains:
I ever wished to live an honest man,
Honest to all, and most to Christ, my Master.
Help me to be His servant true!

Her.
I promise.

Bec.
Henceforth I cast all worldly pomps aside:
The king must find some worthier chancellor:
It irks me thus to slight his gifts; yet John
Who journeys with the prince must bear to France
This realm's Great Seal.

Her.
Bid John to teach his charge,
He'll need it when a king, humility.
When first I saw the prince 'twas on his birthday:
Songs rang, and banners waved: the child was glad
And tossed his head in triumph. Thus I warned him:
‘Child, walk less proudly! He who fashioned man
Fashioned yon worm; and when the man lies dead
The worm consumes his flesh!’ ‘My flesh,’ he cried
With flashing eyes, ‘My flesh—the King of England's!—
I'd treat them thus! ’and thrice on the green turf
Down stamped his little crimson boot. He comes!

How clear his voice!

[Prince Henry enters.
Bec.
The swallow, little prince,
Can twitter though he sings not: so can you
That, like the swallow, with you waft the spring,

P. Hen.
Better his twitter than the organ's growl:
Vespers are done; that's well!

Bec.
They say, my child,
Those Canterbury monks have made me primate;
I little like the charge.

P. Hen.
Why take it then?
I spurned this day a shoe though wrought in pearl,
Because it galled me; ay, and left some red
Upon the maker's cheek! The chancellor's gown
Was gayer thrice than that. You have changed for worse!

Bec.
High place hath many foes.

P. Hen.
When father dies
I shall be king: that day I'll find and slay them!

Bec.
Child, love you not your father?

P. Hen.
Lo! you frown
I love my father, but I love you better:
Not oft he speaks to me, nor then with smiles:
He knows no pretty tales of birds and beasts;
He never lays his hand upon my head;
Hard are his questions; ere the answer comes
He sits in thought, or leaves me.

Bec.
Little prince,
It may be when the cloud is on his brow
His thought is for his son! Know you not, Henry,
A father's heart is with his babes? For them
He toils all day; for them keeps watch by night;
Risks oft his soul itself. See you this letter?
It bids me send you home. We part at sunrise.

P. Hen.
I will not go! I'll stay with you in London!—
Hark, hark, the light hoofs dancing in the court:
Long-maned, large-eyed, a white star on his front:
They said he was so gentle I could ride him:
I answered I would ride him mild or wild.

Father, farewell!

[Rushes out followed by Herbert.
Bec.
Farewell, light heart! Man's life
Loses its speciousness: remains but Duty.
(After a long pause)
Herbert, and John—how wise is each; how true!
How few have friends like these: yet something tells me
That neither will be near me when I die.

Scene III.—Palace at Rouen.

King Henry, Queen Eleanor, the Bishop of Lisieux, Cornwall, Reginald Fitz-Urse, Courtiers, Minstrels, Attendants.
K. Hen.
Three victories in three realms had pleased me less!
This day my ten years' purpose stands fulfilled:
Those monks have given consent! Thomas Archbishop—
That hand which holds the seal wielding the staff,—
The feud of Crown and Church past for ever.
My chancellor made primate, Henry of Blois
Shall bend from his stiff back!

Q. Elea.
Have joy, good husband!
The gift of faith is yours!

K. Hen.
You trust in none;
I, trusting few, trust Thomas; I have proved him.
Those sins my youth had not the grace to shun
At least it scorned to vindicate. Who chid them?
Nor knight, nor bishop; he and he alone!
You slight your one true friend.

Q. Elea.
Hear that, fair ladies!
A spouse unfaithfuller—

K. Hen.
Henceforth I rule!
None shares with me my realm. My Lord of Lisieux,
Should not a king be king?

Lis.
May it please your Highness,
'Tis known I never walked with them that err
From duty to their king. Yet kings, forgive me,
Armed with that twofold power your Highness boasts,
Shall need a sage's prudence.

K. Hen.
Have no fear!
That twofold sway my own, the world shall wonder
Less at its greatness than the temperance meek
Wherewith I wield its functions.

Lis.
Sire, 'tis thus
Your Church shall serve you best. The garden dial
No doubt is appanage of the garden's lord;
Yet he who wills to plant it at incline
And he who scans it by the torch he carries
Know not the hour o' the day.

K. Hen.
My kingdom's bishops
Shall keep full power to mulct ill clerks; and Rome,
Albeit reduced, retain her vantage-place—
The loftiest tassel on the Church's cap.

Q. Elea.
What cap is that? In Guienne some would answer,
‘A fool's cap on a palsy-stricken head— —’
O, 'tis a beauteous and a beaming land!
I ever hated Paris! There that monk,
Bernard, held sway; but in my sunny South,
Strong as the North in arms and wiser thrice,
'Twas banquet still, and song. ‘Mysteries’ and ‘plays’
Alternate graced our halls. Gay Troubadours!
Amid our ‘Courts of Love’ I judged the prize—
They sware my song was best!

K. Hen.
Rise, Southern sea,
And drown for aye that sun-burnt land of ‘Oc!’
An oak-wood of the North were worth it all!
Your Troubadours have but one song among them,
And that's the grasshopper's! Their garrulous land
Scorns kings as much as priests! Your grandfather
In spleen forsook it, lived in Spain, cave-roofed,
The knightly armour hid by hermit weeds,
And, worn by penance, died.

Q. Elea.
A priestly legend!
He revelled to the last and died in sleep:
Heaven grant us all such end! I tell you, Henry,
My land's a land of mind yet more than mirth:
There are who whisper there that marriage vows,
Like vows monastic, mean but cleric gain;—
Poor Petronilla! Rodolf loved her well:
What marred that love? A dotard Pope, preferring
To theirs the claim of Rodolf's beldam wife
Espoused in ignorant youth!

K. Hen.
You fought their fight;
And thirteen hundred boors were burnt, they say,
In Vitry's church, when Vitry fell.

Q. Elea.
Which error
We cancelled fighting in the Holy Land.
O, what a clime! What flowers, what fruits, what odours!
What stars, clear-imaged in those Asian streams
Whose coldest ripple wafts an amorous tune:
That land hath but one blot—Jerusalem!
A city like a nightmare, legend-choked;
Black den of Saints!

K. Hen.
Your ‘Amazons’ and you,
Whose quaint apparel wonder-struck the world,
Ended, ere long, I think, that high crusade.

Q. Elea.
When captains shape their march to please a lady,
The shame is theirs, not hers. 'Twas frolic all,
And so in frolic died.

K. Hen.
A frolic! woman!
My earliest dream was of some great crusade;
That work shall yet be mine, my last, my chief:
Ay, but I'll build my empire first! That done,
My brave and loyal sons shall share my toils,
Or guard my realms at home.

Q. Elea.
How chill 'tis grown!
Swift Southern springs, that with a flame of flowers
In one day light the earth, how unlike you
This tardy Norman May! See those poor monkeys!
Despite their coats of scarlet and of gold
They shake from ear to tail. Fitz-Urse, some music!

Fitz-Urse.
Madam, there stands a Trouvère!

Q. Elea.
Let him sing.
Minstrel, what poems make you?

Trou.
Please your Highness,
The proud old pagan poets made their songs;
We Trouvères find, not make them, deeming earth
God's poem, beauty-stored.

Q. Elea.
Then find me one.

(Trouvère
sings.)

Q. Elea.
That's psalm, not song! Sing me some love-song old,
Of Grecian gods and nymphs.

Trou.
On Grecian hills
Traditionary melodies survive
Pagan, yet touched in part by tenderer feeling:
I know one—‘Phœbus and the Doe.’

Q. Elea.
Sing that.

(Trouvère
sings.)

Q. Elea.
A love-song that! An icicle it is
Added to winter! Phœbus was a fool
Else had he captured Daphne ere she rooted;
Your doe a fool to weep for gladness past.
What says King Henry?

De Tracy
(entering).
May it please your Highness,
Four priests are come, sent by my lord the primate,
With letters and a casket.

K. Hen.
Bid them enter.
Thomas has sent some offering!

[John of Salisbury enters, followed by three abbots.
Q. Elea.
(to one of her ladies).
Lo, their saint!
Large fame is his, and long I craved to see him:
Princely he is, but lacks the princely pride;
Rather some prince's phantom, gaunt and wan;
Methinks that moon which maddens him looks through him!
Saint he is none! his countenance is not humble.

[John of Salisbury presents a letter to the king.
K. Hen.
The casket first! Belike a crown im perial!

Q. Elea.
Not so! A diamond necklace; and for me!

[She tears open the casket, out of which rolls the Great Seal of England.
John of Sal.
This missive, sovereign liege, humbly sets forth
Those forceful, yet unwelcome counter-duties,
The exigence whereof compelled my lord—

K. Hen.
[He tears up the letter, and flings it on the fire.
[He tramples on the Great Seal.

John of Sal.
May it please your Highness—

K. Hen.
Hence, lest I strike thee and thy fellows dead!
O sharp-toothed worm! this heart it was that nursed thee;
Lo, thou hast gnawed thy passage to the day!
Base churl, thou show'st at last thine English breed
And king-defying fierceness. Vengeance! Vengeance!
'Twas with a smile he said our love was past:
He'll find my hate begun. Cornwall! Fitz-Urse!
This night to England: stay the consecration!
Say that my will is changed.

Scene IV.—London; House of the Chief Justiciary.

Richard de Luci, Cornwall.
Corn.
It was untoward, my lord, though done in duty:
The king is much in wrath.

De Luci.
His choice made wroth
Augustine's monks: they love no seculars,
Yet, hating Roger more, and Gilbert more,
Though jealous for a right so oft impugned
Elected Thomas. Thomas sought not greatness:
But late I stood beside him and the king
At Falaise, in a window which o'erlooks
The pleasant Norman plains: the king turned sharp,
And caught him by the arm, and spake, ‘Get hence!
Old Theobald is dead: fill thou his seat:’
The chancellor smiled, and, lifting his gay sleeve,
Replied, ‘A saintly man your Highness seats
Upon Augustine's chair;’ then added, sad,
‘Forbid it, heaven! One month, and love, long tried,
Would change to new-born hatred: royal needs
Prey on Church rights!’ On me King Henry looked—
‘Richard, if on my bier I lay, stone-cold,
Say, wouldst thou throne my son?’ I answered ‘Yea;’
Then he, ‘Thus throne my friend at Canterbury!’

Corn.
The king is changed. 'Tis true he loved this Becket;
But more he trusted Becket's love for him
And for his royal pupil, young Prince Henry.
My lord, King Stephen, pressed by rivals, bowed
The sceptre to the crosier. Not so Henry!
He, in the purple born, from his great mother
The Empress Maude, inherited by right
Both Normandy and Maine, and from his sire
Touraine and Anjou. Next, with Eleanor
He wedded Poitou, Limousin, Auvergne
Saintonge, and Perigord, and Angoumois
And Guienne's vine-clad plains. King Stephen died:
England was his, and with it Europe's coasts
From Scottish shores to mountains of Navarre:
Shall this man be the beadsman of the Pope?
Creedsman suffices!

De Broc
(entering abruptly).
God preserve your lordship!

De Luci.
Sir, you are welcome. Becket for the primate—

Corn.
So, so! you fetch me back: I had slipped my tether:
The king will have his Royal Customs rule,
Not Saxon laws, priest-hatched. His chancellor primate
He deemed his right secure; that dream is past:
Becket is chancellor no more.

De Luci.
That's ill!
I ever marked an inner man in Thomas
That stirred within the outer. Such men burst
Their bond or soon or late.

Corn.
The king misdoubts him,
And, till his will be signified, forbids
The consecration rite.

De Luci.
The election's made;
And, being made in form, no law annuls it.

De Broc.
Then take him like a dog and hang him up!
That done, I find just reason.

De Luci.
Sir, you stand
In presence of this realm's Justiciary,
Who knows alike to vindicate old laws
And pluck from fraud its mask of loyal zeal.
You came unbidden; waste not time on us
If tasks are yours elsewhere.

De Broc.
One task is mine—
To slay the man I hate; and I will slay him!

[Departs.
De Luci.
The air grows healthier now De Broc has left us:
That man's a forest-beast no art can tame.
Three times my hand with iron mace of law
Hath spurned him to his den. His history doubtless
You know not, late returned from Aquitaine.
In youth his bad heart was a nest of adders,
Envenomed purposes and blind at war:
A monk, on false pretence he broke his vows,
And roamed a-preying on the race of man.
Idonea next he met—

Corn.
Idonea?

De Luci.
Her—
The sweetest blossom lit by English skies,
The tenderest of de Lisle's old stem. He met her,
And loved her with the malice of that love
Whose instinct is a craving less to enjoy
Than kill the saintly grace it yet admires;
Likewise the upstart loved her wealthy lands.
A prince had vainly woed her! From her childhood
The orphan in her brother lived; he died:
Like some young widow moonlight-pale, three years,
Daily she decked his grave.

Corn.
He could not win her?

De Luci.
She lived a royal ward. De Broc with bribes
Won certain near the king, Fitz-Urse, De Tracy,
To speed his wooing of the virgin-heiress.
Large nets he spread. Once, well-night trapped, she sought
The friend of her dead mother, Becket's sister,
His dearest upon earth. That great man's name
Since then protects Idonea; for which cause,
Poisoned beside by sin's insane suspicions,
De Broc has vowed revenge. Enough of this:
The king chose ill in Thomas.

Corn.
Whom would you choose?

De Luci.
Not York! no worldly bishop! Poor sick world,
Methinks thy leech, the Church, hath caught thy fever!

Corn.
There's Gilbert!

De Luci.
Fanatic of old, and late
With courtier over-slimed. Sleekness like his
Sophisticates, not lulls, the fight before us,
Makes slippery too the athlete's wrestling-floor.
I note in every country at this hour
A warfare 'twixt the men of mind and might,
The crosier and the sword; these two are kingdoms
In every kingdom front to front opposed,
Yet needing each the other.

Corn.
Up, good sword,
And strike the crosier down!

De Luci.
Cornwall, that cry
Hath in it more of courtier than of statesman:
The crosier down, justice were driven from earth
And chaos come again.

Corn.
Winton last week
Ordained a serf of mine! That serf is free!
Grant us the presentations at the least!
Shear we the shepherds; shear who will the sheep.
Sir, we attend the king at heavy charge:
Nobles must live! I say the Church is proud;
Clamours for freedom.

De Luci.
I was ne'er of those
Who deem church freedom but a maniac's knife
Threatening that maniac's throat. Be hers her freedom:
Let kings reduce her pride. King Stephen's brother,
Henry of Winton, loves both Church and State,
Plots not with bishops, fawns not upon kings,
But higher sits than either, seeking nought.
Legate he was; hath stood too near to popes
And monarchs both, to find a god in either:
Whichever wrongs the other he withstands:
I love that bishop well; if rich, he's bounteous;
Rides with a prince's retinue;—what then?
The people love him better for his pride,
Birth's honest pride, how different from the pride
Of upstart intellect, or of spiritual spleen!
Compared with these 'tis innocent; 'tis child-like;
'Tis but a loftier terrace whence to bend
More humbly to the humble.

Corn.
Winton primate,
All had gone well!

De Luci.
Save to the scaffold's height
King Henry ne'er had raised King Stephen's brother.

Scene V.—The Western Entrance to the Cathedral of Canterbury.

A multitude of clerics and others stand around watching the advance of Becket, preceded by a procession of nobles, abbots, and bishops. John of Salisbury and Herbert of Bosham converse alone.
John of Sal.
Since came to him this greatness he is sad;
He fears the election was not wholly free.

Her.
He fears far more than that.
When Canterbury's towers looked on us first
O'er the great woodlands, thus he spake: ‘Last night
By me there stood a Venerable Form
And gave me talents ten;’ then added low,
‘See that thou sift my faults with flail and fan:
I count thee traitor else.’ I made my vow
That hour. It shall be kept.

John of Sal.
They pass the gate:
Thomas walks last, and by his side the prince,
Holding his hand full fast. That child well loves him;
A word 'gainst Becket, and his face heaven-bright
Clouds with his father's frown!

A French Priest
(addressing an English Priest).
What twain are those that entered late and stand
Within the western portals? Name him first,
That tall ascetic form with presence kingly,
Kingly in kingships of some spiritual sphere,
And fearless port self-stayed, and dominant eye?

English Priest.
That's John of Salisbury, Becket's counsellor chief,
Wisest, men say, in England.

French Priest.
Who is he
Close by, that gazes through those portals, he
With countenance vision-dazed, low stature, form
Slight as a maid's and modest? Such a one
Could he but slip unmarked through gates of heaven,
Might undetected walk 'mid virgin choirs
'Twixt Agatha and Agnes.

English Priest.
That is Herbert,
Becket's chief friend. But lo, my lord himself!

[The procession advances to the high altar, before which sits Henry of Blois, Bishop of Winton. The monks of St. Augustine's Monastery stand in a semicircle around him. The bishops take their seats in two rows below him, in front of the altar; the abbots sit, and the nobles stand behind them.
Leic.
(apart to De Luci).
My lord of Winton consecrates the primate;
The king will like not that.

De Luci.
It shall bestead him.
My lord of York made claim, and Hereford,
And some Welsh bishop, oldest in the land,
Who butts against Pelagius in his dreams
And thinks him living yet. I spake with Winton:
Becket he loves—except when others praise him;—
And this day will in grave discourse exhort
To walk in modesty of virtue, taming
Man's pride of flesh, and please our lord the king.

The B. of Roch.
(addressing the Bishop of Winton).
Most reverend lord, through me the Church presents,
For consecration to a bishop's order,
The archiepiscopal degree, and throne
Primatial of the total realm of England,
Thomas, a presbyter of life approved.

Henry of Win.
Was this election free?

Prior of St. Aug.
My lord, 'twas free.

Henry of Win.
It resteth with the bishops of the province
To ratify the election, or annul.
What sentence make my lords?

Gil.
My lord, our voices
Unanimous approve—the loudest mine.

Henry of Win.
My lords, this work, we trust, is work of God;
Not less, where things of heaven commix with earthly,
A creeping wariness perforce hath place
'Mid duties more sublime. This hour mine eye
Rests on a youth who to the heart of England
That most in innocency seeth God,
Presenteth ever comfort of her hope
And to this Church good auspice. Here he stands
To answer for his father. Royal sir,
This man, elect to Canterbury's chair,
Hath long time lived the realm's high chancellor;
Dispensed her offices; held in his hand
Her treasury's golden key. A man so trusted
Hath enemies. For that cause we demand
That Thomas to the Church be given absolved
From every claim foregone, just or unjust,
Derived from functions past; henceforth for aye
A free man, with a spirit's freedom ranging
Among the things of God.

P. Hen.
My Lord of Winton,
And you, my lords, England's great prelacy
In apostolic synod this day met,
Though young, I stand commissioned by my sire,
And, acting in his name, and by his will,
Concede that just demand.

Henry of Win.
Son, read the oath.

Becket
(reads the oath of a bishop aloud, and ends).
May God so help me, and His holy Gospels!

Henry of Win.
Son, it behoves a bishop of Christ's Church
To make confession of her faith and morals:
Believest thou one God in Persons Three,
The Incarnation of the Second Person,
And, through His death, redemption?

Bec.
I believe.

Henry of Win.
Wilt thou bear witness to the sacred Scriptures
And sage traditions of past times?

Bec.
I will.

Henry of Win.
Wilt thou to Peter, and that kingly line
Long-linked with his, which wields the keys of heaven,
Be liegeful and of constant heart?

Bec.
I will.

Henry of Win.
Wilt thou in chastity and lowness live,
With spirit averse to worldly greed?

Bec.
I will.

Henry of Win.
Wilt thou be gracious to the poor of Christ?

Bec.
I will.

Henry of Win.
God give thee increase of thy faith,
And good resolve, to blessedness eternal!

[The assistant bishops conduct Becket to a side chapel. After a short time they lead him back, wearing sandals, the pectoral cross, the stole, tunicle, dalmatic, and maniple. Passing the altar of St. Benedict, he kneels and prays. The Litanies are then sung, the bishops and other assistants kneeling, while Becket lies on his face before the high altar. The Litanies ended, he kneels while the assistant bishops, solemnly opening the Book of the Gospels, rest it upon his neck and shoulders. After this they lay their hands on his head, saying, ‘Accipe Spiritum Sanctum,’ while the Veni Creator Spiritus is sung. The Bishop of Winton then, first slowly making the sign of the cross over Becket's head, anoints it with the holy chrism, while two choirs, one at the high altar, and one in the chapel of St. Benedict, sing alternately the verses of the Antiphon, Sicut unguentum in capite.
Henry of Win.
Eternal King, and Kingly Priest on high,
Whose virtue makes the worlds for ever young,
Send forth upon the head of this Thy priest
Thy heavenly grace. In stillness let it creep
Down to the utmost parts invisible
Of spirit and of soul. Sustain in him
True faith, true love. Make beautiful his feet
And wingèd on Thy mountain-tops, forth speeding
Thy herald with Thy Gospel for mankind:
Be his to preach it, not by craft of men
But demonstration of Thy Spirit divine,
In word and work. Grant him in right and might
To wield Thy keys; and what he binds on earth
Bind Thou in heaven. Thy blessing send on them
That bless him, and Thy ban on them that curse:
Let him not put the evil for the good,
Darkness for light. Fear he the face of none.
Be Thou his strength, that mightily he rule
Thy Church in this Thy realm, and save Thy people.

[The Bishop of Winton then blesses the pastoral staff and the ring, and delivers them to Becket, as well as the Book of the Gospels, closed, and finally gives him the kiss of peace, which last the assistant bishops likewise reverently bestow.
De Luci
(apart to Leicester).
My lord will preach. Draw near!

Leic.
Some eight years since
Our coronation feast at Westminster
Showed us a pomp more rich. That day the prelates
In divers-coloured silks so shone that still,
Move where they might past gloomiest arch or aisle,
They wove a varying rainbow such as braids
The dark skirts of a cloud.

De Luci.
And cloud and storm
That lovely light portended. 'Twas the queen
Who changed our graver splendours of the West
That day to plumage of the Eastern Church:
She loves the loud and bright. The Grecian rites
In that schismatic seat of Constantine
Had charmed her wild and wandering eye.

Leic.
Lo there!

Henry of Win.
(placing the mitre on Becket's head).
The helmet of salvation gird the head
Of God's high warrior! from its horns forth shine
The glories twinned of either Testament!
Auspicious beam they as from Moses' face
That light of God. Be they His people's strength,
And terrible to those who hate the truth.

Her.
(to John of Salisbury, still near the western entrance).
I catch no word.

John of Sal.
The man who takes his stand
Hard by a torrent hears no sound beside:
Beyond that gate a torrent people streams—

Her.
Streams like the world, and all its blind confusions;
Within, behold the vision of God's peace!
Between these twain we stand.

John of Sal.
The rite's complete:
The primate kneels for blessing.

Her.
Ha! What means it?
A Consecrator blesses from his chair;
And none is loyal more to forms than Winton.
Why stands he thus with hands to heaven upheld,
His white head shining like a sun new-risen
Through wintry mist dim seen?

John of Sal.
At last he speaks!

Her.
Not loud:—and yet we hear him, oh how clearly!

Henry of Win.
This day the Spirit Prophetic on me falls,
Nor rests with me to speak or to forbear.
My will it was to preach of peace, and lo!
I see in heaven a sword;—
Son, take God's blessing in a choice of woes:
Betwixt an earthly and a heavenly king,
Elect of God, this day election make!

Her.
See, see! The primate clasps his hands, and lifts them—
Heavenward he looks!

John of Sal.
He speaks.

Bec.
My choice is made.

[There is a pause. The assistant bishops then lead Becket to the archiepiscopal throne, the two choirs singing the Te Deum in alternate verses.