Glory to God in the
Highest!
Tennyson
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
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,
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--
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. [1]
[Footnote 1: The _a_ throughout these Latin hymns should be
sounded broad, as in 'father. ']
EDITH. Are those the blessed angels quiring, father?
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--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!
CANONS (_singing_).
Hostis in Angliam
Ruit praedator,
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
Poena 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!
CANONS (_singing_).
Eques cum pedite
Praepediatur!
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--
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
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
Praecipitatur.
EDITH. O God, the God of truth hath heard my cry.
Follow them, follow them, drive them to the sea!
Illorum scelera
Poena 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,
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?
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!
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!
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.
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,
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,
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
Here on the hill of battle; let our high altar
Stand where their standard fell . . . where 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
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!
