The Works of Tennyson :: :: University of Virginia Library

—A Tent on a Mound, from which can be seen the Field of Senlac.
Harold, sitting; by him standing Hugh Margot the Monk, Gurth, Leofwin,
Harold.
Refer my cause, my crown to Rome! . . . The wolf
Mudded the brook and predetermined all.
Monk,
Thou hast said thy say, and had my constant ‘No’
For all but instant battle. I hear no more.

Margot.
Hear me again—for the last time. Arise,
Scatter thy people home, descend the hill,
Lay hands of full allegiance in thy Lord's
And crave his mercy, for the Holy Father
Hath given this realm of England to the Norman.

Harold.
Then for the last time, monk, I ask again
When had the Lateran and the Holy Father
To do with England's choice of her own king?

302

Margot.
Earl, the first Christian Cæsar drew to the East
To leave the Pope dominion in the West
He gave him all the kingdoms of the West.

Harold.
So!—did he?—Earl—I have a mind to play
The William with thine eyesight and thy tongue.
Earl—ay—thou art but a messenger of William.
I am weary—go: make me not wroth with thee!

Margot.
Mock-king, I am the messenger of God,
His Norman Daniel! Mene, Mene, Tekel!
Is thy wrath Hell, that I should spare to cry,
Yon heaven is wroth with thee? Hear me again!
Our Saints have moved the Church that moves the world,
And all the Heavens and very God: they heard—
They know King Edward's promise and thine—thine.

Harold.
Should they not know free England crowns herself?
Not know that he nor I had power to promise?
Not know that Edward cancell'd his own promise?
And for my part therein—Back to that juggler,
[Rising.
Tell him the saints are nobler than he dreams,
Tell him that God is nobler than the Saints,
And tell him we stand arm'd on Senlac Hill,
And bide the doom of God.

303

Margot.
Hear it thro' me.
The realm for which thou art forsworn is cursed,
The babe enwomb'd and at the breast is cursed,
The corpse thou whelmest with thine earth is cursed,
The soul who fighteth on thy side is cursed,
The seed thou sowest in thy field is cursed,
The steer wherewith thou plowest thy field is cursed,
The fowl that fleeth o'er thy field is cursed,
And thou, usurper, liar—

Harold.
Out, beast monk!
[Lifting his hand to strike him. Gurth stops the blow.
I ever hated monks.

Margot.
I am but a voice
Among you: murder, martyr me if ye will—

Harold.
Thanks, Gurth! The simple, silent, selfless man
Is worth a world of tonguesters. (To Margot.)
Get thee gone!
He means the thing he says. See him out safe!

Leofwin.
He hath blown himself as red as fire with curses.
An honest fool! Follow me, honest fool,
But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk,
I know not—I may give that egg-bald head
The tap that silences.

Harold.
See him out safe.

[Exeunt Leofwin and Margot.

304

Gurth.
Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother Harold!

Harold.
Gurth, when I past by Waltham, my foundation
For men who serve the neighbour, not themselves,

“Of his liberality his great foundation at Waltham is an everlasting monument, and it is a monument not more of his liberality than of his wisdom. To the monastic orders Harold seems not to have been specially liberal; his bounty took another and a better chosen direction. The foundation of a great secular college, in days when all the world seemed mad after monks, when King Eadward and Earl Leofric vied with each other in lavish gifts to religious houses at home and abroad, was in itself an act displaying no small vigour and independence of mind. The details, too, of the foundation were such as showed that the creation of Waltham was not the act of a moment of superstitious dread or of reckless bounty, but the deliberate deed of a man who felt the responsibilities of lofty rank and boundless wealth, and who earnestly sought the welfare of his Church and nation in all things” (Freeman's Norman Conquest, vol. ii. p. 41).

I cast me down prone, praying; and, when I rose,
They told me that the Holy Rood had lean'd
And bow'd above me; whether that which held it
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were bound
To that necessity which binds us down;
Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy;
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin
Or glory, who shall tell? but they were sad,
And somewhat sadden'd me.

Gurth.
Yet if a fear,
Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints
By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk
Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made
And heard thee swear—brother—I have not sworn—
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall?
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king;
And, if I win, I win, and thou art king;
Draw thou to London, there make strength to breast
Whatever chance, but leave this day to me.

Leofwin
(entering).
And waste the land about thee as thou goest,

305

And be thy hand as winter on the field,
To leave the foe no forage.

Harold.
Noble Gurth!
Best son of Godwin! If I fall, I fall—
The doom of God! How should the people fight
When the king flies? And, Leofwin, art thou mad?
How should the King of England waste the fields
Of England, his own people?—No glance yet
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath?

Leofwin.
No, but a shoal of wives upon the heath,
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun
Vying a tress against our golden fern.

Harold.
Vying a tear with our cold dews, a sigh
With these low-moaning heavens. Let her be fetch'd.
We have parted from our wife without reproach,
Tho' we have dived thro' all her practices;
And that is well.

Leofwin.
I saw her even now:
She hath not left us.

Harold.
Nought of Morcar then?

Gurth.
Nor seen, nor heard; thine, William's or his own
As wind blows, or tide flows: belike he watches,
If this war-storm in one of its rough rolls
Wash up that old crown of Northumberland.

Harold.
I married her for Morcar—a sin against

306

The truth of love. Evil for good, it seems,
Is oft as childless of the good as evil
For evil.

Leofwin.
Good for good hath borne at times
A bastard false as William.

Harold.
Ay, if Wisdom
Pair'd not with Good. But I am somewhat worn,
A snatch of sleep were like the peace of God.
Gurth, Leofwin, go once more about the hill—
What did the dead man call it—Sanguelac,
The lake of blood?

Leofwin.
A lake that dips in William
As well as Harold.

Harold.
Like enough. I have seen
The trenches dug, the palisades uprear'd
And wattled thick with ash and willow-wands;
Yea, wrought at them myself. Go round once more;
See all be sound and whole. No Norman horse
Can shatter England, standing shield by shield;
Tell that again to all.

Gurth.
I will, good brother.

Harold.

Our guardsman hath but toil'd his hand and foot,
I hand, foot, heart and head. Some wine!

(One pours wine into a goblet which he hands to Harold.)

Too much!

307

What? we must use our battle-axe to-day.
Our guardsmen have slept well, since we came in?

Leofwin.
Ay, slept and snored. Your second-sighted man
That scared the dying conscience of the king,
Misheard their snores for groans. They are up again
And chanting that old song of Brunanburg
Where England conquer'd.

Constantinus, King of the Scots, after having sworn allegiance to Athelstan, allied himself with the Danes of Ireland under Anlaf, and invading England, was defeated by Athelstan and his brother Edmund with great slaughter at Brunanburh in the year 937.

See my translation of the Song of Brunanburh (entitled Battle of Brunanburh, vol. vi. p. 187). In rendering this Old English warsong into modern language and alliterative rhythm I have made free use of the dactylic beat. I suppose that the original was chanted to a slow, swinging recitative.

Harold.
That is well. The Norman,
What is he doing?

Leofwin.
Praying for Normandy;
Our scouts have heard the tinkle of their bells.

Harold.
And our old songs are prayers for England too!
But by all Saints—

Leofwin.
Barring the Norman!

Harold.
Nay,
Were the great trumpet blowing doomsday dawn,
I needs must rest. Call when the Norman moves—
[Exeunt all, but Harold.
No horse—thousands of horses—our shield wall—
Wall—break it not—break not—break—

[Sleeps.
Vision of Edward.
Son Harold, I thy king, who came before
To tell thee thou shouldst win at Stamford-bridge,
Come yet once more, from where I am at peace,
Because I loved thee in my mortal day,

308

To tell thee thou shalt die on Senlac hill—
Sanguelac!

Vision of Wulfnoth.
O brother, from my ghastly oubliette
I send my voice across the narrow seas—
No more, no more, dear brother, nevermore—
Sanguelac!

Vision of Tostig.
O brother, most unbrotherlike to me,
Thou gavest thy voice against me in my life,
I give my voice against thee from the grave—
Sanguelac!

Vision of Norman Saints.
O hapless Harold! King but for an hour!
Thou swarest falsely by our blessed bones,
We give our voice against thee out of heaven!
Sanguelac! Sanguelac! The arrow! the arrow!

Harold
(starting up, battle-axe in hand.)

Away!
My battle-axe against your voices. Peace!
The king's last word—‘the arrow!’ I shall die—
I die for England then, who lived for England—
What nobler? men must die.
I cannot fall into a falser world—
I have done no man wrong. Tostig, poor brother,
Art thou so anger'd?
Fain had I kept thine earldom in thy hands
Save for thy wild and violent will that wrench'd

309

All hearts of freemen from thee. I could do
No other than this way advise the king
Against the race of Godwin. Is it possible
That mortal men should bear their earthly heats
Into yon bloodless world, and threaten us thence
Unschool'd of Death? Thus then thou art revenged—
I left our England naked to the South
To meet thee in the North. The Norseman's raid
Hath helpt the Norman, and the race of Godwin
Hath ruin'd Godwin. No—our waking thoughts
Suffer a stormless shipwreck in the pools
Of sullen slumber, and arise again
Disjointed: only dreams—where mine own self
Takes part against myself! Why? for a spark
Of self-disdain born in me when I sware
Falsely to him, the falser Norman, over
His gilded ark of mummy-saints, by whom
I knew not that I sware,—not for myself—
For England—yet not wholly—

Enter Edith.

Edith, Edith,
Get thou into thy cloister as the king
Will'd it: be safe: the perjury-mongering Count
Hath made too good an use of Holy Church
To break her close! There the great God of truth
Fill all thine hours with peace!—A lying devil

310

Hath haunted me—mine oath—my wife—I fain
Had made my marriage not a lie; I could not:
Thou art my bride! and thou in after years
Praying perchance for this poor soul of mine
In cold, white cells beneath an icy moon—
This memory to thee!—and this to England,
My legacy of war against the Pope
From child to child, from Pope to Pope, from age to age,
Till the sea wash her level with her shores,
Or till the Pope be Christ's.

Enter Aldwyth.
Aldwyth
(to Edith).
Away from him!

Edith.
I will . . . I have not spoken to the king
One word; and one I must. Farewell!

[Going.
Harold.
Not yet.
Stay.

Edith.
To what use?

Harold.
The king commands thee, woman!
(To Aldwyth.)
Have thy two brethren sent their forces in?

Aldwyth.
Nay, I fear not.

Harold.
Then there's no force in thee!
Thou didst possess thyself of Edward's ear
To part me from the woman that I loved!

311

Thou didst arouse the fierce Northumbrians!
Thou hast been false to England and to me!—
As . . . in some sort . . . I have been false to thee.
Leave me. No more—Pardon on both sides—Go!

Aldwyth.
Alas, my lord, I loved thee.

Harold
(bitterly).
With a love
Passing thy love for Griffyth! wherefore now
Obey my first and last commandment. Go!

Aldwyth.
O Harold! husband! Shall we meet again?

Harold.
After the battle—after the battle. Go.

Aldwyth.
I go. (Aside.)
That I could stab her standing there!

[Exit Aldwyth.
Edith.
Alas, my lord, she loved thee.

Harold.
Never! never!

Edith.
I saw it in her eyes!

Harold.
I see it in thine.
And not on thee—nor England—fall God's doom!

Edith.
On thee? on me. And thou art England! Alfred
Was England. Ethelred was nothing. England
Is but her king, and thou art Harold!

Harold.
Edith,
The sign in heaven—the sudden blast at sea—
My fatal oath—the dead Saints—the dark dreams—
The Pope's Anathema—the Holy Rood

312

That bow'd to me at Waltham—Edith, if
I, the last English King of England—

Edith.
No,
First of a line that coming from the people,
And chosen by the people—

Harold.
And fighting for
And dying for the people—

Edith.
Living! living!

Harold.
Yea so, good cheer! thou art Harold, I am Edith!
Look not thus wan!

Edith.
What matters how I look?
Have we not broken Wales and Norseland? slain,
Whose life was all one battle, incarnate war,
Their giant-king, a mightier man-in-arms
Than William.

Harold.
Ay, my girl, no tricks in him—
No bastard he! when all was lost, he yell'd,
And bit his shield, and dash'd it on the ground,
And swaying his two-handed sword about him,
Two deaths at every swing, ran in upon us
And died so, and I loved him as I hate
This liar who made me liar. If Hate can kill,
And Loathing wield a Saxon battle-axe—

Edith.
Waste not thy might before the battle!

Harold.

No,
And thou must hence. Stigand will see thee safe,

313

And so—Farewell.

[He is going, but turns back.
The ring thou darest not wear.
I have had it fashion'd, see, to meet my hand.
[Harold shows the ring which is on his finger.
Farewell!
[He is going, but turns back again.
I am dead as Death this day to ought of earth's
Save William's death or mine.

Edith.
Thy death!—to-day!
Is it not thy birthday?

Harold.
Ay, that happy day!
A birthday welcome! happy days and many!
One—this!
[They embrace.
Look, I will bear thy blessing into the battle
And front the doom of God.

Norman cries
(heard in the distance).
Ha Rou! Ha Rou!

Enter Gurth.
Gurth.
The Norman moves!

Harold.
Harold and Holy Cross!

[Exeunt Harold and Gurth.
Enter Stigand.
Stigand.
Our Church in arms—the lamb the lion—not
Spear into pruning-hook—the counter way—

314

Cowl, helm; and crozier, battle-axe. Abbot Alfwig,
Leofric, and all the monks of Peterboro'
Strike for the king; but I, old wretch, old Stigand,
With hands too limp to brandish iron—and yet
I have a power—would Harold ask me for it—
I have a power.

Edith.
What power, holy father?

Stigand.
Power now from Harold to command thee hence
And see thee safe from Senlac.

Edith.
I remain!

Stigand.
Yea, so will I, daughter, until I find
Which way the battle balance. I can see it
From where we stand: and, live or die, I would
I were among them!

Canons
from Waltham (singing without).
Salva patriam
Sancte Pater,
Salva Fili,
Salva Spiritus,
Salva patriam,
Sancta Mater.

Edith.
Are those the blessed angels quiring, father?

315

Stigand.
No, daughter, but the canons out of Waltham,
The king's foundation, that have follow'd him.

Edith.
O God of battles, make their wall of shields
Firm as thy cliffs, strengthen their palisades!
What is that whirring sound?

Stigand.
The Norman arrow!

Edith.
Look out upon the battle—is he safe?

Stigand.
The king of England stands between his banners.
He glitters on the crowning of the hill.
God save King Harold!

Edith.
—chosen by his people
And fighting for his people!

Stigand.
There is one
Come as Goliath came of yore

Taillefer the minstrel, a man of gigantic stature, who rode out alone in front of the Norman army chanting:

Taillefer, ki mult ben cantout,
Sor un cheval ki tost alout,
Devant li Dus alout cantant
De Karlemaine è de Rollant
E d' Oliver è des vassals
Ki morurent en Renchevals.

Roman de Rou, 13149.

—he flings
His brand in air and catches it again,
He is chanting some old warsong.

Edith.
And no David
To meet him?

Stigand.
Ay, there springs a Saxon on him,
Falls—and another falls.

Edith.
Have mercy on us!

Stigand.
Lo! our good Gurth hath smitten him to the death.

Edith.
So perish all the enemies of Harold!

316

Canons
(singing).
Hostis in Angliam
Ruit prædator,
Illorum, Domine,
Scutum scindatur!
Hostis per Angliae
Plagas bacchatur;
Casa crematur,
Pastor fugatur
Grex trucidatur—

Stigand.
Illos trucida, Domine.

Edith.
Ay, good father.

Canons
(singing).
Illorum scelera
Pœna sequatur!

English cries.
Harold and Holy Cross! Out! out!
Stigand.
Our javelins
Answer their arrows. All the Norman foot
Are storming up the hill. The range of knights
Sit, each a statue on his horse, and wait.

English cries.
Harold and God Almighty!
Norman cries.
Ha Rou! Ha Rou!

317

Canons
(singing).
Eques cum pedite
Præpediatur!
Illorum in lacrymas
Cruor fundatur!
Pereant, pereant,
Anglia precatur.

Stigand.
Look, daughter, look.

Edith.
Nay, father, look for me!

Stigand.
Our axes lighten with a single flash
About the summit of the hill, and heads
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by
Their lightning—and they fly—the Norman flies.

Edith.
Stigand, O father, have we won the day?

Stigand.
No, daughter, no—they fall behind the horse—
Their horse are thronging to the barricades;
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter
Floating above their helmets—ha! he is down!

Edith.
He down! Who down?

Stigand.
The Norman Count is down.

Edith.
So perish all the enemies of England!

Stigand.
No, no, he hath risen again—he bares his face—

318

Shouts something—he points onward—all their horse
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up.

Edith.
O God of battles, make his battle-axe keen
As thine own sharp-dividing justice, heavy
As thine own bolts that fall on crimeful heads
Charged with the weight of heaven wherefrom they fall!

Canons
(singing).
Jacta tonitrua
Deus bellator!
Surgas e tenebris,
Sis vindicator!
Fulmina, fulmina
Deus vastator!

Edith.
O God of battles, they are three to one,
Make thou one man as three to roll them down!

Canons
(singing).
Equus cum equite
Dejiciatur!
Acies, Acies
Prona sternatur!
Illorum lanceas
Frange Creator!

Stigand.

Yea, yea, for how their lances snap and shiver

319

Against the shifting blaze of Harold's axe!
War-woodman of old Woden, how he fells
The mortal copse of faces! There! And there!
The horse and horseman cannot meet the shield,
The blow that brains the horseman cleaves the horse,
The horse and horseman roll along the hill,
They fly once more, they fly, the Norman flies!

Equus cum equite
Præcipitatur.

Edith.

O God, the God of truth hath heard my cry.
Follow them, follow them, drive them to the sea!

Illorum scelera
Pœna sequatur!

Stigand.
Truth! no; a lie; a trick, a Norman trick!
They turn on the pursuer, horse against foot,
They murder all that follow.

Edith.
Have mercy on us!

Stigand.
Hot-headed fools—to burst the wall of shields!
They have broken the commandment of the king!

Edith.
His oath was broken—O holy Norman Saints,

320

Ye that are now of heaven, and see beyond
Your Norman shrines, pardon it, pardon it,
That he forsware himself for all he loved,
Me, me and all! Look out upon the battle!

Stigand.
They thunder again upon the barricades.
My sight is eagle, but the strife so thick—
This is the hottest of it: hold, ash! hold, willow!

English cries.
Out, out!

Norman cries.
Ha Rou!

Stigand.
Ha! Gurth hath leapt upon him
And slain him: he hath fallen.

Edith.
And I am heard.
Glory to God in the Highest! fallen, fallen!

Stigand.
No, no, his horse—he mounts another—wields
His war-club, dashes it on Gurth, and Gurth,
Our noble Gurth, is down!

Edith.
Have mercy on us!

Stigand.
And Leofwin is down!

Edith.
Have mercy on us!
O Thou that knowest, let not my strong prayer
Be weaken'd in thy sight, because I love
The husband of another!

Norman cries.
Ha Rou! Ha Rou!

Edith.
I do not hear our English war-cry.

Stigand.
No.

Edith.
Look out upon the battle—is he safe?

321

Stigand.
He stands between the banners with the dead
So piled about him he can hardly move.

Edith
(takes up the war-cry).
Out! out!

Norman cries.
Ha Rou!

Edith
(cries out).
Harold and Holy Cross!

Norman cries.
Ha Rou! Ha Rou!

Edith.
What is that whirring sound?

Stigand.
The Norman sends his arrows up to Heaven,
They fall on those within the palisade!

Edith.
Look out upon the hill—is Harold there?

Stigand.
Sanguelac—Sanguelac—the arrow—the arrow!—away!

The a throughout these Latin hymns should be sounded broad, as in ‘father.’

SCENE II.

—Field of the Dead. Night.
Aldwyth and Edith.
Aldwyth.
O Edith, art thou here? O Harold, Harold—
Our Harold—we shall never see him more.

Edith.
For there was more than sister in my kiss,
And so the saints were wroth. I cannot love them,
For they are Norman saints—and yet I should—
They are so much holier than their harlot's son
With whom they play'd their game against the king!

322

Aldwyth.
The king is slain, the kingdom over-thrown!

Edith.
No matter!

Aldwyth.
How no matter, Harold slain?—
I cannot find his body. O help me thou!
O Edith, if I ever wrought against thee,
Forgive me thou, and help me here!

Edith.
No matter!

Aldwyth.
Not help me, nor forgive me?

Edith.
So thou saidest.

Aldwyth.
I say it now, forgive me!

Edith.
Cross me not!
I am seeking one who wedded me in secret.
Whisper! God's angels only know it. Ha!
What art thou doing here among the dead?
They are stripping the dead bodies naked yonder,
And thou art come to rob them of their rings!

Aldwyth.
O Edith, Edith, I have lost both crown
And husband.

Edith.
So have I.

Aldwyth.
I tell thee, girl,
I am seeking my dead Harold.

Edith.
And I mine!
The Holy Father strangled him with a hair
Of Peter, and his brother Tostig helpt;
The wicked sister clapt her hands and laugh'd;
Then all the dead fell on him.

Alluding to her dream in Act 1. Sc. ii.: and all The dead men made at thee to murder thee.

323

Aldwyth.
Edith, Edith—

Edith.
What was he like, this husband? like to thee?
Call not for help from me. I knew him not.
He lies not here: not close beside the standard.
Here fell the truest, manliest hearts of England.
Go further hence and find him.

Aldwyth.
She is crazed!

Edith.
That doth not matter either. Lower the light.
He must be here.

Enter two Canons, Osgod and Athelric, with torches. They turn over the dead bodies and examine them as they pass.
Osgod.
I think that this is Thurkill.

Athelric.
More likely Godric.

Osgod.
I am sure this body
Is Alfwig, the king's uncle.

Athelric.
So it is!
No, no—brave Gurth, one gash from brow to knee!

Osgod.
And here is Leofwin.

Edith.
And here is He!

Aldwyth.
Harold? Oh no—nay, if it were—my God,

324

They have so maim'd and murder'd all his face
There is no man can swear to him.

Edith.
But one woman!
Look you, we never mean to part again.
I have found him, I am happy.
Was there not someone ask'd me for forgiveness?
I yield it freely, being the true wife
Of this dead King, who never bore revenge.

Enter Count William and William Malet.
William.
Who be these women? And what body is this?

Edith.
Harold, thy better!

William.
Ay, and what art thou?

Edith.
His wife!

Malet.
Not true, my girl, here is the Queen!

[Pointing out Aldwyth.
William
(to Aldwyth).
Wast thou his Queen?

Aldwyth.
I was the Queen of Wales.

William.
Why then of England. Madam, fear us not.
(To Malet.)
Knowest thou this other?

Malet.
When I visited England,
Some held she was his wife in secret—some—
Well—some believed she was his paramour.

Edith.

Norman, thou liest! liars all of you,

325

Your Saints and all! I am his wife! and she—
For look, our marriage ring!

[She draws it off the finger of Harold.

I lost it somehow—
I lost it, playing with it when I was wild.
That bred the doubt! but I am wiser now . . .
I am too wise . . . Will none among you all
Bear me true witness—only for this once—
That I have found it here again?

[She puts it on.

And thou,
Thy wife am I for ever and evermore.

[Falls on the body and dies.

William.
Death!—and enough of death for this one day,
The day of St. Calixtus, and the day,
My day when I was born.

Malet.
And this dead king's
Who, king or not, hath kinglike fought and fallen,
His birthday, too. It seems but yestereven
I held it with him in his English halls,
His day, with all his rooftree ringing ‘Harold,’
Before he fell into the snare of Guy;
When all men counted Harold would be king,
And Harold was most happy.

William.
Thou art half English
Take them away!
Malet, I vow to build a church to God

326

Here on the hill of battle; let our high altar
Stand where their standard fell . . . whee these two lie.
Take them away, I do not love to see them.
Pluck the dead woman off the dead man, Malet!

Malet.
Faster than ivy. Must I hack her arms off?
How shall I part them?

William.
Leave them. Let them be!
Bury him and his paramour together.
He that was false in oath to me, it seems
Was false to his own wife. We will not give him
A Christian burial: yet he was a warrior,
And wise, yea truthful, till that blighted vow
Which God avenged to-day.
Wrap them together in a purple cloak
And lay them both upon the waste sea-shore
At Hastings, there to guard the land for which
He did forswear himself—a warrior—ay,
And but that Holy Peter fought for us,
And that the false Northumbrian held aloof,
And save for that chance arrow which the Saints
Sharpen'd and sent against him—who can tell?—
Three horses had I slain beneath me: twice
I thought that all was lost. Since I knew battle,
And that was from my boyhood, never yet—
No, by the splendour of God—have I fought men

327

Like Harold and his brethren, and his guard
Of English. Every man about his king
Fell where he stood. They loved him: and, pray God
My Normans may but move as true with me
To the door of death. Of one self-stock at first,
Make them again one people—Norman, English;
And English, Norman; we should have a hand
To grasp the world with, and a foot to stamp it . . .
Flat. Praise the Saints. It is over. No more blood!
I am king of England, so they thwart me not,
And I will rule according to their laws.
(To Aldwyth.)
Madam, we will entreat thee with all honour.

Aldwyth.
My punishment is more than I can bear.