The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Becket sitting on a low bed in his pontificals. A large number of bishops enter.
1st Bishop.
Most reverend father, primate of all England,
We grieve to learn your Grace is ill—

Bec.
That's past;
Brother, time presses: 'tis to-day the feast
Of good King Edward's relics late translated;
I pray you to be plain.

2nd Bishop.
My lord, we bishops
Are fed on common food, breathe common air;
Rumours we hear which reach not that high clime
Wherein your Grace abides. Beware, my lord,

206

For as a cliff eternal sits this king;
In vain the billows beat its base.

Bec.
The Church
Was once the rock; nations the waves. Who next?

3rd Bishop.
My lord, our duty is to speak the truth:
Destruction stands against us, face to face:
The king has sworn to vindicate—nay more,
To change henceforth to laws, his Royal Customs.

Bec.
'Tis so.

4th Bishop.
His barons and his knights are with him:
He, like the Conqueror, lifts an iron hand;
They, like an iron breast-plate on his breast,
Have vowed them to the vengeance of his will.

Bec.
'Tis so.

5th Bishop.
My lord, the last were I to flee
This fight: not less the wrestler needs firm ground;
The giant set on quicksands, or on ice,
Becomes the pigmy's laughter, Peter's rock
Was once the strength of each true churchman's battle:
What find we now? A Pope, and anti-pope;
The Emperor with the last; and with the first
England and France. No Pope will war on England;
A sager Henry fights old Beauclerk's wars;—
Beware lest you should rouse a bloodier Rufus.

Bec.
My lords, have you said all? Now, hear me speak.
I might be large to tell you, courtier prelates,
That if the Conqueror's was an iron hand
Not less 'twas just. Oftenest it used aright
Its power usurped. It decked no idiot brow

207

With casual mitre; neither lodged in grasp
That, ague-shaken, scarce could clutch its bribe,
The sceptres of the shepherds of Christ's flock.
I might remind you that, if Rufus lived
A bestial life, he died the death of beasts;
That Henry Beauclerk met that day in Anselm
A keener head than his and heavier hand
Albeit a gentler; that his ten years' war
Ended in this—Investitures disowned,
Church discipline restored, Christ's poor protected.
O happy sage! in battles of this world
The cloistral shades of Bec were with him still,
Its holy anthems ever in his ears;
And when the craven prelates round his throne,
Summoned for counsel, counsel dared not give,
Silent they hung their heads; they babbled not
Plain treason, or veiled threat.

Gil.
My lord, your pardon!
We dare not leave the sacred charge of souls
To strive in worldly conflicts.

Bec.

Gilbert! Gilbert!
They that rejoice in heaven o'er sinners saved
Wept for thy fall. Is that the hand which wrote,
‘Apostate is the man who turns his back
Upon St. Peter's chair’? My voice it was
Raised thee from Hereford's see to London's see;
I hoped thee brave and wise. Vantage thou hadst,
Chastening from youth thy spirit and thy flesh,
At Cluny first, and afterwards at Gloucester;—
Then Satan made alliance with the world,
And wrecked thee through thy fame—
Gilbert, some swineherd or some scullion grasps
Thy destined crown in heaven!

Bishops of England!

208

For many truths by you this day enforced,
Hear ye in turn but one. The Church is God's:
Lords, were it ours, then might we traffic with it;
At will make large its functions, or contract;
Serve it or sell; worship or crucify.
I say the Church is God's; for He beheld it,
His Thought, ere time began; counted its bones,
Which in His Book were writ. I say that He
From His own side in water and in blood
Gave birth to it on Calvary, and caught it,
Despite the nails, His Bride, in His own arms:
I say that He, a Spirit of clear heat,
Lives in its frame, and cleanses with pure pain
His sacrificial precinct, but consumes
The chaff with other ardours. Lords, I know you;
What done ye have, and what intend ere yet
Yon sun that rises weeping sets this night;
And therefore with this charge bind I your souls:
If any secular court shall pass its verdict
On me, your lord, or ere that sin be sinned
I bid you flee that court; if secular arm
Attempt me, lay thereon the Church's ban,
Or else against you I appeal to Rome.
To-day the heathen rage: I fear them not:
If fall I must, this hand, ere yet I fall,
Stretched from the bosom of a peaceful gown
Above a troubled king and darkening realm,
Shall send God's sentence forth. My lords, farewell!

[The bishops bow low and depart.

University of Virginia Library

Scene II.—Northampton; Becket's House.