THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 
 /'■ 
 
 -~1
 
 HAROLD 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BUTLER
 
 HORACE HART, PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
 
 
 C^' : f* - "^ *~ '^ 
 
 HAROLD ^ 
 
 ^ DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 
 
 (^n5 o^ger (poeme 
 
 BY 
 
 ARTHUR GRAY BUTLER 
 
 FELLOW AND TUTOR OF ORIEL COLLEGE, OXFORD 
 
 "There he hes, the noblest Torso in our gallery of English 
 kings." Professor Halford Vaughan 
 
 jEon^on: 
 
 HENRY FROWDE, OXFORD WAREHOUSE 
 AMEN CORNER 
 
 OXFORD: ii6 HIGH STREET 
 1892
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Of the poems in this volume, 'Harold ' was written, 
 substantially, sixteen years ago, but withheld for 
 various reasons. It is based on the well-known 
 novel by the first Lord Lytton, to whom I gladly own 
 an almost unlimited obligation. Of the minor poems, 
 the ' Hodge ' series, with the exception of the two 
 last, are an attempt to represent the wants and 
 wishes of the country- labourer in less - favoured 
 districts ; while those entitled ' Religio Academici ' 
 are submitted to the public with much hesitation, 
 being so imperfect and tentative a treatment of a 
 great subject. 
 
 Most of these minor poems have appeared from 
 time to time in the Spectator, and are now re- 
 produced by kind permission of the Editor.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 HAROLD, PAGE 
 
 Act I 3 
 
 Act II . . . 3S 
 
 Act III 68 
 
 Act IV . -125 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 * 
 
 The Day of Jubilee, 1887 147 
 
 Oxford to London 150 
 
 Oxford, Past and Present 153 
 
 Duty 155 
 
 John Bright 157 
 
 Progress 160 
 
 In the Beginning 163 
 
 Nobody and Somebody 165 
 
 To AN Optimist 168 
 
 Christmas, 1885 169 
 
 Et qui sibi Mortem 170 
 
 Live and Let Be! 172 
 
 The Swallows 173 
 
 Loss and Gain 174 
 
 Meliora Priora 176 
 
 Easy does it ! 177 
 
 In Arcady 178 
 
 A Sprig of Holly 180
 
 Vlil 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Sonnets : — 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 TOUJOURS DE l'AUDACE 183 
 
 Nai jxa Tovs .... 
 
 
 
 
 183 
 
 ' He Purgeth It' . 
 
 
 
 
 184 
 
 A Year of Silence 
 
 
 
 
 184 
 
 Sorrow 
 
 
 
 
 185 
 
 Sweet Sorrow 
 
 
 
 
 185 
 
 A Song of Battle .... 
 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 Religio Academici 
 
 
 
 
 186 
 
 Ammergau 
 
 
 
 
 196 
 
 Peace 
 
 
 
 
 197 
 
 Heaven 
 
 
 
 
 197 
 
 Joy and Grief .... 
 
 
 
 
 198 
 
 Shadows . . . . 
 
 
 
 
 198 
 
 Our Children .... 
 
 
 
 
 199 
 
 After Horace : — 
 
 March . 200 
 
 April 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 May 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 October 
 
 
 
 
 202 
 
 December 
 
 
 
 
 203 
 
 Idem 
 
 
 
 
 204 
 
 Hodge — 
 
 On Saving 205 
 
 On Church-going . 
 
 
 
 
 . 207 
 
 Vox Ventura .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 209 
 
 Voting by Ballot . 
 
 
 
 
 211 
 
 On the Irish Question 
 
 
 
 
 . 214 
 
 On Trespass .... 
 
 
 
 
 . 217 
 
 The Jeweillee 
 
 
 
 
 220 
 
 Penultimate .... 
 
 
 
 . 222 
 
 Finis 
 
 
 
 
 . 224
 
 HAROLD 
 
 <D I
 
 DRAMATIS PERSONAE 
 
 Edward the Confessor, King of England. 
 
 Harold, his Successor. 
 
 GuRTH and Wolnoth, brothers of Harold. 
 
 Haco, nephew of Harold. 
 
 William, Duke of Normandy .^ and his Duchess. 
 
 Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, brother of William. 
 
 De Graville, Fitzosborne, Taillefer, Knights at JVilliani's 
 TOourt. 
 
 Alred, Archbishop of York. 
 
 Aylmer, Abbot from Normandy. 
 
 Lanfranc ; and Hugues Maigrot, Monk. 
 
 Bertie, a fool at William's Court. 
 
 SiMot!, a Jew. 
 
 Editha, Queen of Edward, sister of Harold. 
 
 GiTHA, her mother. 
 
 Edith, cousin of Harold. 
 
 Aldyth, wife of Harold, sister of Edwin and Morcar. 
 
 Hi^LOisE, a Norman beauty. 
 
 Cecile, attendant on the Queen. 
 
 Bishops, Barons, Knights, Soldiers, Monks, and Nuns.
 
 ACT I. 
 
 Scene I. 
 GiTHA rt«rf Edith (fvoin in Githas house in London). 
 
 Githa. What is that, Edith ? What are 3'ou fondhng 
 there in your bosom ? 
 
 Edith. It is my dove, lady, my poor dove. It was 
 seated by its mate upon the thatch, when it was pounced 
 on by a hawk and killed. 
 
 G. Tut, tut, child, you have always some favourite in 
 misfortune. 
 
 E. And may I not grieve over it ? 
 
 G. Nay, there are other things to grieve over : the 
 King dying ; England all divided and in confusion ; 
 Normans in every good post in Court and Church ; and 
 Wolnoth, my youngest and dearest boy, prisoner with 
 Haco in Normandy ! And Harold, oh, why did I ever 
 urge him to go to Duke William's court .'' He is so bold 
 and fearless, I should have checked him : but I bade him 
 go, and now month after month passes, and he comes 
 not back. 
 
 E. But he will come back again, dear lady, will he 
 not? 
 
 B 2
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 G. Ah, you know not that Norman Court. Then 
 I was bUnded by my love for Wolnoth, and now I see 
 clearly through my fears for Harold. But, child, do not 
 call me lady ! Call me, mother, as I have before now 
 bidden you. 
 
 E. Ah, mother, mother (euibracing her), and you do 
 not think any harm will happen to Harold ? 
 
 G. Who can tell, dear ? Duke William is a bold bad 
 man. 
 
 E. But he dare not— 
 
 G. Child, he dare do anything that is for his interest. 
 
 E. Dear mother, all may yet go well. 
 
 G. And I may twine flowers like these in the hair of 
 my Harold's bride. 
 
 {Doing it, as Edith kneels at her feet. Enter ALnKD, Archbishop 
 of York, unobserved^ 
 
 Arch. Ah, poor child ! And mine must be the hand to 
 aim the blow. Mine ! for the sake of England ! [Ap- 
 proaching.) Daughter ! 
 
 E. [starting up). My Father ! 
 
 G. What news. Father, what news ? 
 
 Arch. I have been sent for, Lady, to the King, who is 
 dying. 
 
 G. But that is good news. Father. What say all the 
 Norman crew of monks and shavelings who have preyed 
 upon him so long ? 
 
 Arch. His old English heart revives within him, as 
 death draws nigh : and we have good hopes he may 
 name Harold as his successor. 
 
 E. Harold ! 
 
 Arch. Yes, daughter : but we must leave no stone un- 
 turned to work upon him : and there is one service you
 
 HA R OLD. 
 
 may render. The Queen, your Godmother, the saintly 
 lady Editha, he has sent for her also. 
 
 Both. For her? 
 
 Arch. Even so ! Penitence will have its perfect virork : 
 and the thouglit of his neglected wife comes back to him 
 as the shades of death gather. 
 
 E. And I, Father, what can I do ? 
 
 Arch. You must to the Queen, and persuade her — she 
 loves you well — to forget all past injuries and neglect, 
 and go at once to her husband. Once there, let her plead 
 the cause of her absent brother, and urge him to acknow- 
 ledge Harold as his successor. 
 
 G. And she will do it. Small affection has she left 
 for anything in this world ; but she loves Harold— he was 
 her playmate and her girlish idol — and she loves Edith 
 for his sake. 
 
 Arch. And I will be with the King, and prepare him. 
 You will do this, daughter ? 
 
 G. Edith will do anything for the good of Harold. 
 
 E. Yes, for his good, but 1 know not if he would 
 
 like this. You look pale, Father. 
 
 Arch. It is nothing. We must use earthly means. Our 
 enemies use them. 
 
 E. Well, Father, if you advise it ! But I would 
 rather Harold should owe his throne to the people. 
 It is for them to give the crown of England, not the 
 King. 
 
 Arch. No doubt, my child ! But it were dangerous to 
 let him name Duke William. 
 
 E. Well, then, I will go. You have always sought 
 Harold's good, Father. Give me your blessing. 
 
 Arch. God speed you, daughter ! And you too {to
 
 HAR OLD. 
 
 Githd) go with her and let a mother's authority supply 
 what is wanting in her prayers. [^Exit Edith and Githa.) 
 She goes to lift Harold to a throne, and herself to — 
 Well, the fairer lamb, the nobler sacrifice ! And it is for 
 Harold's good, and England's. And now to the King. 
 
 {Exit. 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 'Room in palace q/DuKE William of Normandy. Enter Haco.) 
 
 Haco. At length I have given him the slip, my faithful 
 spy, who follows me like my shadow. But stop, lest he 
 have left his eyes and ears behind him ! This tapestry ! 
 Here might a man well hide. And this curtain ! So ! 
 Safe for a time ! Oh madness to have come to Nor- 
 mandy ! to risk Harold's safety for a Wolnoth, the hope 
 of England for a boy. And the hours fly on : and they 
 will not let us go. Some fresh feast ! Some tourna- 
 ment ! Some feat of arms ! They cannot part with us ; 
 they see their dear English friends so rarely. Oh, mad- 
 ness, madness ! Could we but know the worst, and 
 quarrel with them, and break away, though that were 
 dangerous. The Duke is — But hark ! he comes, and the 
 Duchess, in deep converse ! Soft, I will hide here. 
 This tapestry shall do honest service for once. 
 
 {Enter Duke and 'Duchess followed by De Graville.) 
 
 Duke. Shows he yet any signs of j'ielding ? 
 Duch. Not a whit ! Adela calls him Harold the im- 
 moveable. 
 
 Duke. Immoveable indeed ; impenetrable ! inscrut-
 
 HA HOLD. - 7 
 
 able! He is undaunted by my power : indifferent to my 
 splendour : contemptuous of my hinted threatenings. 
 
 Duck. And he wins thy very knights by his noble 
 grace and valour. Taillefer sings of him as a paragon of 
 chivalry. 
 
 Duke. Ha ! he had better mind his pipings. I brook 
 no rivals. What is to be done ? I were loth — 
 
 Ditch. 1 wish you would talk to Odo, William. He is 
 very wise, and — 
 
 Duke. Can mould men, you would say, while I crush 
 them. Good ! Send Odo hither ! Yet stay, wife, one 
 banquet more ! richer than all before ! richer wine ! 
 richer viands ! costlier apparel ! Let Adela be decked 
 in all her beauty, and seat her next to Harold. And 
 then — 
 
 Duck. And then ? 
 
 Duke. We will see, good wife, we will see. Ha, De 
 Graville ! [Exit Duchess : approach De Graville. 
 
 Duke. Where is your prisoner ? 
 
 De G. I were loth to be thought his gaoler, Sire. The 
 valiant Earl is — 
 
 Duke. Our guest you would say. Aye, true ! But 
 mark me, De Graville, I hold you responsible for his safe 
 keeping. And if he leave this Court alive without my 
 leave, your head shall be for his. 
 
 De G. Why so. Sire ? 
 
 Duke. Because I will. Sir Knight : and if the order 
 comes to you to watch him yet more closely, you will 
 obey. No more ! {De Graville bows, and withdraws. 
 
 Duke. His spell is everywhere, even on my trustiest 
 knight. Nay, it is on myself also. And so he must be 
 mine.
 
 8 HAROLD. 
 
 (Enter Odo.) 
 
 Duke. Odo, this man baffles me ; I have wasted a 
 king's ransom on him, and he is still — 
 
 Odo. Harold. 
 
 Duke. WJiat then ? ^ 
 
 O. A man who knows his own mind, and perhaps — 
 yours also. 
 
 Duke [fiercely). No man shall know my mind, and live. 
 
 O. Does that include me, brother ? 
 
 Duke. Do not anger me ! I should add, except to 
 serve me. 
 
 O. Well, then, you would have him your vassal, good ! 
 But how ? As King of England ? Ha ! that would sound 
 well— an Enghsh king vassal to a Norman Duke ! 
 
 Duke. Peace ! Brother, I could strike you dead, were 
 you not — 
 
 O. So devoted to serve you. Why, William, 1 merely 
 seek to know your mind about this man : and you turn 
 upon me, you, mine own familiar friend. 
 
 Duke. Proceed ! 
 
 O. Well, then, you would have him out of your way 
 in mounting to the throne of England. {William assents.) 
 Brother, the Seine is deep. 
 
 Duke. No more ! I cannot. 
 
 O. Poison, then, is sure. 
 
 Duke. 1 tell you, I cannot : he is my guest. All Europe 
 would arm against me. 
 
 O. Not so ! An accident ! An unlucky mushroom, 
 or a cook's blunder, a shade too much of laurel-water in 
 the sauce ! (William shakes his head.) Well, then, if he 
 must live, he must live. But have you spoken plainly to 
 him, and told him downright — Englishmen love down-
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 Tightness — that he must Hve as your man, to do your 
 will, to work for your glory ? Have you — 
 
 Diike. I have hinted at this. 
 
 O. But you must tell him plainly. Leave hints to 
 churchmen ! Plainness is the tongue of princes. ' Veni. 
 vidi, vici.' Give me power, and I would be plain and 
 blunt as Caesar. 
 
 Duke. And if he yield not then ? 
 
 O. Then to prison with him ! Every one has his 
 terror. A mother for her child, a miser for his gold, 
 a Jew for his skin, and an Englishman for his freedom. 
 
 Duke. Tut, he might break from prison, or my nobles 
 arm to set him free. 
 
 O. Well then, the Philistines of Gath put out the 
 mighty Samson's eyes. But you eye me .'' 
 
 Duke. Are you a Devil ? 
 
 O. No, I am your brother. 
 
 Duke. When had a priest a heart, or a churchman 
 any thought of honour ? Pah ! 
 
 O. Most honourable brother, I leave you to yourself, 
 and to your honour. (Going out : William stops him.) 
 
 Duke. Nay, leave me not thus, I am not master of 
 myself at times. 
 
 O. 1 did but speak of it as Epicurus of old, the wise 
 master, of his chance confluence of atoms. 'Tis a strange 
 world. 
 
 Duke. Well, supposing this chance confluence put 
 before him, and he yield, what then ? What pledge have 
 1 that he will keep his word ? 
 
 O. Swear him ! 
 
 Duke. How? 
 
 O. Swear him as your vassal, 3'our man !
 
 lO HAROLD. 
 
 Duke. Oaths have been broken ere now. 
 O. Nay, but swear him upon the sacred rehcs and 
 the ashes of the holy dead. And then let him break that 
 oath if he dare. 
 
 Duke {after a pause). His oath ! Good, I like the 
 notion. Quick then, good brother! Bone and relic, 
 holy coat and jewel, from shrine and sanctuary, have all 
 in readiness ! If I move him, he shall swear it this very 
 hour, after the banquet. Yet sta}', you will hide the 
 relics, Odo, when he lays his hand on them ? 
 
 O. I will. These English dogs love not the jewels of 
 Holy Church. 
 
 Duke. Good ! and Holy Church shall profit by it when 
 we come to England. 
 O. Ah ! 
 
 Duke. Abbeys, mitres, sees, cathedrals ; all shall be 
 hers, and more, more, more. ' Libere recepisti, da 
 liber^.' You know me, Odo. And meanwhile shall the 
 guards be doubled, the drawbridge raised, and Harold's 
 person safely guarded. So ! [Exit Duke. 
 
 O. Sees, abbeys, mitres, and cathedrals, all 
 Given in one breath ! He thinks me covetous, 
 My worthy brother, and he thinks right well. 
 Did all the world belong to Mother-Church, 
 All save one peak of icy Caucasus, 
 I'd sell my jewels, set my lands in pawn, 
 Go lifelong barefoot, sackcloth next my loins. 
 Limp in the public highways, beg for alms. 
 To win for heaven that outcast spot of earth, 
 And fit it for a Christian's sepulchre. 
 But to the work, in which the Saints vouchsafe me 
 Their heavenly succour ! And now — for their bones ! 
 
 {Exit.
 
 HAROLD. II 
 
 Haco {bursting from concealment). Blind him, thou 
 bloody priest, and thou his brother, 
 Prating of honour, but to do the deed 
 More darkly, deep in dungeons underground ! 
 Harold the eye of England, blind his eyes ! 
 Never! and yet— and yet it may be done: 
 Done, and the world, the good unthinking world, 
 Not know it till too late : then, when 'tis over, 
 Say with a sigh, it never should have been : 
 But done, 'tis done : and so, what follows after ? 
 There is one way, one only way to save him. 
 Meet guile with guile, deceived use deceit ! 
 Be truth in peace thy jewel, but in war 
 Leave truth at home, and carrj^ counterfeits ! 
 Or live by conscience whole, or not at all ! 
 Yield middle ways to soft-tongued hypocrites ! 
 So shall we, bettering our instruction, come 
 To escape these devils by the arts of hell. 
 Then shine once more the angel. But he comes 1 
 
 {Enter Harold.) 
 
 Har. Dissimulation, feigning, and delay ! 
 So runs the hour. He will not let me go. 
 And underneath his bland and catlike smile 
 Flashes anon a purpose. Ah ! I fear, 
 I fear for England. 
 
 Hac. {advancing and putting his hands on his shoulder). 
 With good reason, Harold ! 
 
 Har. What, Haco, pale as— 
 
 Hac. One who has been in hell, 
 
 And heard the fiends hold council. 
 
 Har. How ?
 
 12 HAROLD. 
 
 Hoc. Here seated, 
 
 Seeking brief refuge from these tongues of Babel, 
 1 overheard two men, who talked together : 
 They spoke of Harold. 
 
 Har. Well ! 
 
 Hac. And then one said, 
 
 Yon Harold were a marvellous proper man 
 To govern England. Then the other frowned. 
 
 Har. Frown ? Well he might, yet frowning is no 
 murder. 
 
 Hac. Then said the first again, ' If I were William, 
 Harold should not go henee, but with his word 
 To help King William to the throne of England.' 
 
 Har. Odo ? 
 
 Hac. {nodding assent). Thereat the other smiled. 
 
 Har. The Duke? 
 
 Hac. The Duke ? It was the Devil. And then they spoke 
 Of arts, contrivance, threatening force and fraud, 
 Captivity that shakes the strongest will. 
 And darker yet — 
 
 Har. A captive ! See, I go, 
 
 This instant. {Noise without.) 
 
 Hac. Hark ! It was the drawbridge rose : 
 
 And there ! again ! The great portcullis fell. 
 The guards are doubled. [Rushes to the windoiv.) Stay ! 
 
 You seek more proof? 
 Let me try! {Goes to the door: is stopped by guards, 
 saying, Back, back !) See you ? 
 
 Har. Ha ! We are at bay. {Drawing his sword.) 
 
 Hac. Worse ! we are prisoners ! Nay, upon your life. 
 No force ! You give them thus the chance they seek. 
 
 Har. Then all is lost. Lie there, dishonoured blade ! 
 
 ( Throwing sword away.)
 
 HAROLD. 13 
 
 Hac. Not lost, if you are wise. But listen to me ! 
 
 Har. How mean you ? 
 
 Hac. If I fall in robbers' hands, 
 
 And they exact my promise, am I bound ? 
 
 Har. Exact ? Your promise ? 
 
 Hac. Say, some robber bade you 
 
 Butcher, a villain's part, the trusting lamb, 
 Stifle its bleatings with its mother's fleece ; 
 Or in the night invade your sleeping guest 
 With death-concocted potion ? Would you — 
 
 Har. Do it ? 
 
 I would die rather. 
 
 Hac. But if on your life 
 
 Hung other lives ? Would'st let this villain-knave, 
 A thief, a rogue, a cut-purse, take that life, 
 That precious, priceless, all-transcendent jewel, 
 Dearer to us than wealth of Solomon ; 
 Not yours but all men's, when one single word, 
 A word, not act, compell'd not voluntar}^. 
 Would set thee free ? 
 
 Har. Would'st have me ? 
 
 Hac. See there yonder ! 
 
 ( Taking him to a ivimioiv. ) 
 See, there is England, more to you than friend, 
 Than father, mother, loved ones, more than all ; 
 And on your arm in her distracted state 
 Hang all her hopes and fortunes. Split in parties, 
 Undone by faction, with a dying king. 
 An alien priesthood, and a hostile foe 
 Watching occasion ! You her prop, her stay, 
 Your arm her only safety ! 
 
 Har. Gurth is there.
 
 14 • HAROLD. 
 
 Hac. Watching the winds for Harold. 
 
 Har. Edward lives. 
 
 Hac. And round his deathbed glower the Norman 
 wolves, 
 Thirsting to lap our life-blood. 
 
 Har. Haco, stay ! 
 
 Hac. And you, you would be caged in fastness here, 
 In a loathed dungeon, rendering England's moan, 
 Seeing yet held from helping. 
 
 Har. Boy, your words 
 
 Goad past endurance. 
 
 Hac. Seeing did I say ? 
 
 Nay, steel your heart, and summon up all your blood 
 For yet more dread revealings ! In your ear, 
 Nearer ! Walls hear us. Yonder crafty priest, 
 Who has with all his brother's tiger-heart 
 Worse, serpent's cunning, spoke of blinding you. 
 Ha, blinded Samson, summoned to make sport 
 For jesting Philistines ! 
 
 Har. What did you say? 
 
 Haco, mine eyes ! 
 
 Hac. Your eyes ! Nay yours no longer ! 
 
 The purblind wretch whose seeing goes no farther 
 Than a mere handbreath, thus, the scorn of nature 
 That injures first, then mocks her injury. 
 Will be your envy soon. 
 
 Har. Incredible ! 
 
 The Duke ! A soldier ! Blind me ! blind a guest, 
 A comrade ! As there is a sun in heaven, 
 You mock me ! 
 
 Hac. As there is a depth in hell, 
 
 I mock you not.
 
 HAROLD. 15 
 
 Har. And William ? 
 
 Hac. The good Duke 
 
 Though at first scouting, played and dallied with it, 
 And dalliance with suggestion devil-born 
 Soon grows to be a devil. 
 
 Har. Swear it to me ! 
 
 Hac. I swear 't. 
 
 Har. Not on your sword ! It has a stain. 
 
 Hac. Then by yon bright and stainless sun in 
 heaven, 
 By maiden's honour, childhood's innocence, 
 I swear it, Harold. 
 
 Har. You would have me then — 
 
 Hac. Under compulsion, and for England's sake, 
 Do what no force of man, or fiend, would make you 
 Do for your own 1 
 
 Har. Lie to them ? 
 
 Hac. Fight them, rather, 
 
 With their own weapons ! Treachery is their food ; 
 Well do they thrive on't. 
 
 Har. 'Tis the worse for them, 
 
 I cannot do it. 
 
 Hac. Cannot ? Then we perish. 
 
 Har. A lie ! 'Tis infamy. 
 
 Hac. And to kill is murder 
 
 In innocent peace : but, oh, what hypocrite. 
 What made-up mask, what traitor to true virtue, 
 Dares brand him perjured, who, from native truth 
 Enforced to desperation, stoops to use 
 What arms despair may prompt him ? 
 
 Har. Say no more ! 
 
 I must have time.
 
 1 6 HAROLD. 
 
 Hac. Woe to you, if we perish ! 
 
 Woe, if in obstinate romance of honour, 
 CUnging to names, unarmed with truth alone 
 'Gainst tyrants armed, unmatched in artifice. 
 You suffer lust and rapine sweep our shores, 
 Our maiden buds deflowered, and swinish feet 
 Trampling on innocence. 
 
 Hctr. Leave me, Haco, leave me ! 
 
 Hac. Hist! who comes hither ? Stand we here aside, 
 This corner ! Wolnoth with his Dalilah ! 
 Nothing prevents him passing ; feeble flies 
 Through meshes slip that are a bar to lions. 
 Let us stand by, and hear him ! 
 
 {Enter Wolnoth and Heloise. 
 
 He'lo'ise. And so you are going, Wolnoth, back to 
 England! That hateful England, with its cold black 
 skies and colder hearts : going with Earl Harold. 
 
 Wol. To England ! Never ! If my brother wishes, let 
 him go. I will stay here, with you, with love, with 
 Normandy. 
 
 He'l. But he may force you from these arms. I have 
 only love to keep you. 
 
 Wol. Which is stronger than all. Sweet Heloise, I 
 will never leave you. And, between ourselves, my good 
 brother is likely to want all his strength to tear himself 
 away. The Duke has taken a strong attachment to him. 
 Ha, ha! 
 
 Hel. Mechant ! 
 
 Wol. Charmante ! 
 
 He'l. Allons, aux plaisirs ! 
 
 Wol. Allons !
 
 HAROLD. 17 
 
 Sentinel. Qui va la ? 
 
 Wol. Normandie ! 
 
 Sent. Passe Normandie ! 
 
 Wol. Belle Normandie ! Aliens ! {Exeunt. 
 
 Har. Lost to shame ! lost to me ! lost to England 1 
 
 Wolnoth, my brother ! my brother ! for whom I came 
 here, in spite of warning : and thought to bring him back 
 to a mother's heart, to a country's service. And now 
 
 1 find him, in a mistress' arms, corrupt, degenerate, 
 degraded ! 
 
 Hac. And this was the device of Duke William. 
 
 Har. Aye, or his priest brother. But I will pay 
 them for it. 
 
 Hac. You will — 
 
 Har. Leave me ! my brain is fire : my heart is stone : 
 Good spirits quit me. Go ! I would be alone. 
 
 Hac. Farewell ! 'Tis but a word, and you are free. 
 Life 's but a farce ; make it a tragedy, 
 And the world laughs ; to act too fine spoils all. 
 
 {Haco retires. 
 
 Har. A word, and I am free. Yet what a word ! 
 O Haco, friend, what degradation lies 
 Merely in uttering of that little word. 
 Which, like the false ensnaring usurer, 
 Sets free the body but to exact the more 
 The slavery of the mind. Wer't but to die, 
 Merely to die, and with some stroke of fortune 
 Life-ending, brief, on the red battle-field, 
 Pass like an earthquake-shock, and all be over, 
 It might be borne. But blinded to live on. 
 Poring for ever into sightless gloom, 
 With blank dark eyeballs ! and in that eclipse 
 
 C
 
 l8 HAROLD. 
 
 Deeper than night, darker than Erebus, 
 
 Still read, read ever in the haunted brain 
 
 England's great agony : her slaughtered hosts, 
 
 Her flaming homes, her desolated plains ; 
 
 And, worse for those who live than those who die, 
 
 The shrieks of mothers, ere their sons be cold, 
 
 Rapt in the arms of Norman conquerors. 
 
 Yet powerless to avenge them ! 'Tis too much. 
 
 Ask what he will, I'll swear it; yield up all : 
 
 Truth is for men ; with devils there 's no law. 
 
 i Enter Duke William.) 
 
 Duke. Harold ! 
 
 Har. [aside). Already ! 
 
 Ditke. You are weary of this life ? 
 
 Har. I am. Suffer me to depart. There is small 
 pleasure in a weary guest. 
 
 Duke. A guest. Sir Earl ? 
 
 Har. Yes, Sir Duke, am I a prisoner ? 
 
 Duke. No ! nor yet a guest, unless I will it. You were 
 the Count Guy's prisoner, and I ransomed you, and so — 
 
 Har. So I should be your slave. In England we had 
 hung Count Guy for making captive of a shipwrecked 
 traveller. 
 
 Duke. Hang him, for the chance afforded me of 
 obliging so noble a— friend ! Nay, we wander from the 
 point. Let us return to it. You would depart ? 
 
 Har. I would. Mypresence is much needed in England. 
 
 Duke. Needed? and why? 
 
 Har. The king is dying. 
 
 Duke. And they need you to settle the succession. 
 Good ! It is of this I would speak. And now let me sit 
 beside you, as a friend, Harold. Give me your hand, and
 
 HAROLD. 19 
 
 listen ! Twenty years ago, when I was young, when I 
 dreamt with youth's ardour of love and of ambition, I 
 sate one day thus beside your royal Edward. He was of 
 other mould than I, meek, timid, retiring. Heaven meant 
 him for the cloister. And then at last turning to me his 
 saintly face, he sighed and said, O William, pity me, pity 
 me ! This Crown of England is too heavy for me. O evil 
 greatness ! O weary power ! And then I answered in 
 a merry vein, evil it is indeed, a very rare evil : would 
 I had more of it ! Well, we talked on, and on. He 
 groaned, and I comforted. He spake of unruly subjects, 
 and I offered him my aid to conquer them, until at last 
 he promised me, when Heaven should send him release, 
 he promised me the Crown of England. But you start ; 
 3'ou withdraw your hand. 
 
 Har. It was involuntary. Proceed ! 
 
 Duke. Well then, since that time, my wife — Oh, Harold, 
 the pride, the ambition of these women I — my wife has 
 given me no rest, ever reminding me of that sovereign 
 end. And she has in her veins the blood of Alfred, so 
 that a child of ours might without dishonour sit upon 
 England's throne. But you are silent. 
 
 Har. I do but w^ait to hear what you would say, 
 Proceed ! 
 
 Duke. Well then, as on Edward's death the throne is 
 vacant, and as England now needs a strong ruler, and — 
 and as, in short, I am strong — Well ! what have you to 
 say to this, Harold ? 
 
 Har. Nothing ! 
 
 Duke. God's splendour, nothing ? 
 
 Har. No, Duke William, I would hear what you have 
 to say of it. 
 
 c 2
 
 20 HA R OLD. 
 
 Duke. Say of it ! Why this, man ! I would be king of 
 England, after the saintly Edward's death — whom God 
 watch over and preserve !— and I would have you help 
 me to it. 
 
 Har. Me ! 
 
 Duke. Yes, you, Sir Earl ! Who is there with power 
 in England like yours ? 
 
 Har. And you would have me — 
 
 Duke. Help me to the throne ! When on it, trust me 
 to keep it ! 
 
 Har. Duke William, it is the people of England who 
 can alone bestow the Crown of England. 
 
 Duke. And the people are silly sheep, who run where 
 the sheep-dog drives them. You are the people of 
 England. 
 
 Har. This, then, I will do. When the Witan assembles, 
 I will state your claims fairly and friendly, and leave it 
 to their decision. Will this content you ? 
 
 Duke. Content me ! Let the minnows decide if the 
 whale shall swallow them ? Am I a fool ? 
 
 ■Har. But I will press your claims. All that you have 
 now said shall be laid before them openly and honestly. 
 
 Duke. And what if they choose not me, but take thee, 
 man ? Rumour says you are ambitious. Ha, Sir Earl ! 
 I have touched you there. 
 
 Har. Nay ! In that case, if they chose me, I would refuse. 
 
 Duke. Till farther asking. Tush, we waste time. You 
 are the voice, the arm, the head of England. What you 
 will, she wills. And you shall make me your King. 
 
 Har. And if not. Sir Duke ? 
 
 Duke. And if not, you were better — Nay, Harold, 
 anger me not, I would not for the world threaten you.
 
 HAROLD. 21 
 
 Har. You were better, you would say, beware : for 
 Normandy has dungeons deep enough, and dark enough, 
 for one who disputes Duke WilHam's will. 
 
 Duke. I spoke not of imprisonment. 
 
 Har. And even if seeing men may escape from prison, 
 yet blinded men, robbed of their eyes, are secure for ever. 
 Eh ! Methinks you look pale, my Lord Duke. 
 
 Duke, {aside) Treason ! treachery ! now more than ever 
 must he be mine. What, sirrah, you doubt my honour ? 
 {Harold rises.) Sit down ! 
 
 Har. It was but a jest. [Continuing his walk.) 
 
 Duke. A very evil jest ! {Rising angrily.) 
 
 Har. And dangerous withal ! One moment, Duke ! 
 ( Walks up and doivn : the Duke watching him : Harold 
 gazes on England : then returns.) 
 
 Duke. Well, you have decided ? 
 
 Har. It is a great thing to be King of England. 
 
 Duke. And a king has great power to reward those 
 who serve him. Listen 1 Help me to the throne, and 
 you shall be my greatest subject. Wealth, lands, titles, 
 all that a man can wish for, all this will I give thee. 
 
 Har. All that a man can wish for ! All this you will 
 give me ? 
 
 Duke. And Adela, my youngest and fairest daughter, 
 she shall be your bride, and then who so high, so great, 
 so favoured in all the realm as Harold ? What, man ! still 
 hesitate ? Nay then — 
 
 Har. Duke William, I am convinced. Be it as you will ! 
 
 Duke. In good time, Harold : for I was about to forget 
 myself And now embrace me, dear friend and future 
 son-in-law, and then make ready for the banquet. See, 
 Odo comes to summon us.
 
 22 HAROLD. 
 
 {Enter Odo.) 
 
 Har. (aside, wiping his face). The Judas kiss ! O Haco, 
 was it well ? was it well ? Done, done, done ! I who 
 would have died a thousand deaths sooner than utter one 
 lie. But -Edith! England! [Exit. 
 
 Odo. Has he consented ? 
 
 Ditke., Yes. It is done. - 
 
 O. The saints be thanked for it ! 
 
 Duke. Is all ready? Ere he have time to think ? Ere 
 he grow cool ? 
 
 O. All ! Bone and relic, martyr and saint, from crypt 
 and shrine, all are there. They wait for Harold. 
 
 Duke. He shall swear on them before them all. 
 
 O. And then he is thine, body and soul. 
 
 Duke. But let the guards be ready, if he refuse. 
 
 O. For what ? 
 
 Duke. To the dungeon with him ! to rot in chains ! 
 
 O. They shall be ready. But fear not. The saints 
 fisht for us. He will not refuse. 
 
 Duke. Then he is mine, and so is England. {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene III. 
 {Banquet Hall, Duchess, Adela, Nobles, Fool.) 
 Taillefer (sings). 
 
 Roses overarch the place : 
 
 Myrtles twine about her door: 
 
 But a cloud is on her face 
 Sighing, crying, Nevermore ! 
 
 Will he never come again, 
 
 I.oved so fondly, but in vain ?
 
 HAROLD. 23 
 
 Vassals at his bidding wait, 
 
 Seated in his Northern hall ; 
 But he frets amid his state ; 
 
 Lo ! he starts, he hears her call ; 
 ' Galleys swift fly o'er the sea ! 
 Southern maid, I come to thee.' 
 
 Twine the leaf, and twine the flower, 
 Bridal wreath from orange-grove ! 
 
 Sweetest crown of sweetest hour, 
 Emblem of unfading love. 
 
 Waft him, O thou Northern wind ! 
 
 Skies and waters both be kind ! 
 
 All the North is m his might, 
 
 All the South is in her charms ; 
 Fairest Lady, noblest Knight, 
 
 See him rushing to her arms ! 
 He the Norseman, bold and free, 
 She the flower of Italy '. 
 
 Diich. Thanks, noble Taillefer ! You bards are ever 
 sighing after Italy. Have we then no flowers fair enough 
 in this northern clime ? And now, my Lords (as the 
 Duke still lingers), I pray you to excuse him. He has 
 business of great import ; but he will be here anon. 
 
 Fool. And when he comes. Lady, will he eat ? 
 
 Duck. No, sirrah, the banquet has gone too far. No 
 time for eating now ! 
 
 F. Not eat ! Then thank heaven I am no Duke, but 
 a fool. Tell me now, gentles, which is wiser, he who 
 has more than enough, yet wishes more, or he who has 
 nothing, but is content ? 
 
 Lord. He who has more than enough, yet wishes 
 more. 
 
 F. Nay, he is a fool, for he enjoys nothing.
 
 24 ffA RO LD. 
 
 L. Well then, the other is wiser. 
 
 F. Nay, he too is a fool, for he has nothing to enjoy. 
 
 L. Both then are fools ? 
 
 F. Aye, so ! Discontent is a soaring butterfly that was 
 eaten by a sparrow in the air. 
 
 L. And content— 
 
 F. Is a blind beetle that fed on dung. 
 
 Duch. Who then is wise ? 
 
 F. God's splendour, I cannot tell. It was prophesied 
 to me at my birth I should one day be jester to a king. 
 
 If a man have enough, tho' it be but rough, 
 
 He 's a fool to seek for more : 
 But as many as lack for the belly or back 
 
 Are wise to add to their store. 
 
 I will go and buy sword and spear, and conquer me an 
 estate in England. Ha, Sir Wolnoth ! what say you ? 
 
 Wol. I am content here in Normandy. 
 
 F. You are a wise man, Wolnoth. Take my cap and 
 bells ! 
 
 Wol. Peace, fool, in England you would be whipped. 
 
 F. Ah, they never laugh there, do they, save i' the 
 madhouse ? But what is this ? 
 
 Enter Monks bearing a chest, with relics : guests all rise : great 
 uneasiness. Bertie goes and lifts the clo/h.) 
 
 F. Ugh ! (retires). 
 
 Adela. Mother, what is it ? 
 
 Diich. I know not, child. By whose orders bring j'ou 
 this chest ? 
 
 Monk. By order of the noble prelate. Count Odo. 
 
 Ditch. Some ceremony, doubtless. Let not this check 
 your merriment, noble Sirs. What is it, Bertie .'
 
 HA R LD. 25 
 
 F. A most uncomfortable, unsavoury aftercourse for 
 a feast ! Ugh ! 
 Monk. Peace, mocker ! 
 Adela. Oh, mother ! It concerns Harold ! 
 Duch. Be calm, child. But see, the Duke ! 
 {Enter William and Odo.) 
 
 Duke. My Lords, I have been delayed. But my time 
 has not been spent in vain. Know all of you, that Harold 
 has promised me his aid on Edward's death to mount the 
 throne of England : and he even now waits our summons 
 to this assembly, where he shall ratify his promise by an 
 oath. Go, Fitzosborne ; go, De Tancarville ; and conduct 
 the noble Earl hither, that the binding words may be 
 uttered in the presence of you all. 
 
 {Exeunt Fitzosborne mid De Tancarville. 
 And now, gather round yon sacred chest ! In it are the 
 bones of saints, and the relics of martyrs. By that holy 
 gathering shall he swear. 
 
 {Enter Harold mid Haco, escorted^) 
 
 Haco {aside to Harold). Shrink not ! It is for the sake 
 of England. {Delay on the part of Harold.) 
 
 Duke. Approach, Harold, and before this assembly of 
 what is noblest in Normandy, I summon thee to confirm 
 thy promise made to me by an oath, to aid me to the 
 throne of England on the death of Edward, and to marry 
 my daughter Adela, when the time shall come. Advance, 
 Odo, and repeat to the noble Earl the form by which he 
 shall take the oath. 
 
 Odo. Thou wilt swear to fulfil this promise if thou live, 
 and God aid thee : and in witness of that oath wilt lay thy 
 hand on this reliquary and swear.
 
 26 HAROLD. 
 
 Har. If I live, and God aid me, it shall be done. 
 All. God aid him ! 
 
 O. Lift up the cloth ! {Harold trembles to see contents 
 of chest.) 
 
 Duke. Well may you tremble, Harold. That oath is 
 heard on high. The dead have heard it. The saints 
 record it. Cover up again the holy relics. 
 Har. And now, Duke William, I will depart. 
 Duke. Thou shalt depart this night. 
 Har. Come, Haco, come, Wolnoth ! 
 Duke. Stay ! Haco may go with thee. I have no claim 
 on him. But Wolnoth shall stay as surety for the faith 
 of Harold. 
 
 Har. And this is your faith ? 
 Duke. It is. 
 
 Har. It is not in our compact. 
 Duke. No, but it is its seal. 
 Har. Wolnoth, come hither ! 
 Helo'ise. You will not leave me. You promised. 
 Har. Over the seas have I come to bring you, Wolnoth, 
 back to a mother's kiss. Mount your horse, and ride 
 with me : for I will not return without you. 
 Wol. Nay, Harold, I cannot come. 
 Har. And wherefore ? 
 
 Wol. Normandy is become my home, and all I love is 
 here. 'Tis cruel to take me from it. 
 
 Har. And England, Wolnoth, is England nothing to 
 you ? 
 
 Wol. Why did you send me out of England when life 
 is love, and love is life, and the heart is everything? 
 Normandy is now my home, and I will stay in it. 
 Har. False, corrupt, degenerate, degraded !
 
 HA R LD. 27 
 
 Wol. Call me what you will, but I will not go with 
 you. 
 
 Har. (looking fiercely round). And which of 3'ou has 
 
 done this ? You, or you. 
 Statesman, or Churchman, with your devilish arts. 
 Duke-demon, or priest-pander? O my God! 
 This man my kin ? My noble father's seed, 
 Child of sweet dreams ! Farewell, no more my 
 
 brother ! 
 Go, and be happy in your Circe's arms ! 
 Laugh while we groan ! Your mother '11 hear your 
 
 choice, 
 And weep, aye weep, yet weeping hide her tears, 
 For scorn that she hath borne thee. Haco, come ! 
 Let us begone ! And you, your pardon. Sirs ! 
 Forgive our plainness ! In our rough rude isle, 
 Seabound, and neighbour to the northern wind, 
 That freezes up our tongues' civility, 
 We have small skill to garnish noble phrase 
 To gloss ignoble action. But in England 
 There is one word far nearer to the truth 
 For him who snares the stranger as a wolf, 
 Than e'er ye dreamt of, ye in all your pride 
 Of Norman chivalry, and Norman honour. 
 
 {Rushes out ivith Haco.) 
 O. Shall he go free ? 
 
 Duke. Yes ! No ! Release ! Detain him ! 
 Nay, I must trust him. Yet, upon my word. 
 If this same northern wind blow oft in England, 
 Beshrew me, we shall need warm covering there. 
 Pest! What a storm! Quick after him, De Graville. 
 All that he needs, food, treasure, ships, provide him,
 
 ZH HAROLD. 
 
 To our last denier ! For with iiis good aid, 
 Angels and saints on high his oath assisting, 
 I trust to sit upon the throne of England. 
 
 {Curtain falls.) 
 
 Scene IV. 
 (^King's Ante-chamber in London. Norman Conspirators.) 
 
 «. Have you heard .' The King has sent for the Arch- 
 bishop of York. 
 
 li. For Aired ? 
 
 a. Who hates the very name of Norman, and will undo 
 all that has been doing these last ten years. 
 
 /3. And Father Aylmer .? Is there no back-tooth of a 
 Saint, no miraculous toe, that he can produce or promise 
 to the silly King ? 
 
 a. Not one ! The King is dying ; a Saxon fit has 
 come over him, and he must needs make his peace with 
 the Queen, and Aired. 
 
 y. That means Harold, not William, king of England. 
 
 6. And that means these hammer-fisted Saxons 
 knocking Normans over, as you would fell an ox. I 
 shall flee. 
 
 y. Whither? 
 
 S. To Normandy : to the protection of the great 
 Duke ! 
 
 {■i. I cannot, I am owed moneys. 
 
 S. Owed moneys ? They will pay you in coin you like 
 not. These Saxons are like their own bulls, stupid and 
 slow, or mad. There is no measure in them. 
 
 i3. Yet wait ! Let us try once more if we cannot get 
 Aylmer to the King. Ten to one but he will invent
 
 HAROLD. 29 
 
 some new marvel, some eye-tooth of St. Aloysius, some 
 scapula of St. Anthony, which will do the business. 
 
 n. Well, we can but try. I will see him, and he shall 
 do his uttermost. But if we fail, then— 
 
 {■i. We flee. 
 
 ■y. To Normandy ? 
 
 All. Yes, yes ! Agreed ! to Normandy ! 
 
 'Enter from opposite sides two Lords.) 
 
 ist Lord. Well met ? 
 
 2nd Lord. What news ? 
 
 15/ Lord. We are sent for to the presence. 
 
 2nd Lord. And the vile crew of monks and greedy 
 Normans ? 
 
 1st Lord. Banished with Aylmer. 
 
 2.nd Lord. Truly this is news : 
 
 Yet much I fear me 'tis a flickering lamp, 
 Whose goodly show of promise comes too late : 
 His days are numbered. 
 
 {Enter Physician and Attendant.) 
 
 Sir, how fares the King ? 
 
 Phys. The King, Sir ? Ill as heaven and earth can 
 make him ! 
 
 "znd Lord. As heaven and earth ? 
 
 Phys. Aye, truly, for he longs 
 
 For death, to be an angel ; and the wish 
 Doth bring heaven nearer : and for earth— God help 
 him ! 
 
 \st Lord. Is he so ill then ? 
 
 Phys. He hath that about him, 
 
 Dropsies, and, agues, hot and cold relapses. 
 Fevers, and fluxes, peccant taints and humours,
 
 30 HA R OLD. 
 
 That had he Hves Hke hairs, and will to live them, 
 He could not live : but hark 1 they call for cordials. 
 
 {Exit with attendant, 
 ist Lord. Eugh ! The wise man ! I smile but shudder 
 at him ; 
 Pray heaven, his fingers come not near my bones ! 
 Enter, my Lords ! 
 
 ^En1er Lords and Bishops.) 
 
 The King is near to death. 
 Who shall his heir be ? 
 
 ^rd Lord. In the street without 
 
 Men talk of portents, prophecies, and wonders : 
 A fiery dragon hath bestrid the air, 
 A mule hath foaled, a snow-storm drizzled blood. 
 With ancient words of Merlin fear-remembered. 
 That, ' Sit a Saint on England's throne, 
 Then is fair England's fate undone.' 
 
 15/ Lord. Small need of Merlin to foretell us danger, 
 Whose hearts ache with it ! Ha, my Lord of London, 
 What say you ? 
 
 Bishop. Two alone can govern England. 
 \st Lord. William, or Harold.? Say, for whom art 
 thou ? {A pause.) For Harold ? 
 
 Bishop. He is wise and full of valour. 
 ist Lord. Or William ? 
 ' Bishop. He is wise, and valiant also. 
 \st Lord. He is a tyrant. 
 
 Bishop. Only if you thwart him. 
 
 That which you fear, his terrible ' I will,' 
 Once yours, will be your safeguard. He will keep you 
 From waspish Welshman and marauding Dane,
 
 HAROLD. 31 
 
 Who, hemmed Hke winter to his howling seas, 
 Will till his wastes, not waste you. Ye shall be — 
 
 15/ Lord. Well-fed, well-guarded, like a muzzled bear, 
 Bid dance, if one pipe to him. Out upon it ! 
 You choke me. Sir, you have a Norman tongue. 
 
 Voices. The Norman, never ! 
 
 Tst Lord. Then ye are for Harold? 
 
 "yd Lord. All to one man, to live and die for Harold. 
 
 15/ Lord. Well said ! Cry Harold, and defy the 
 world ! 
 We '11 have him yet ; but lo ! the Archbishop coming ! 
 
 {Enter AT(.cn^isiiov, attended.) 
 
 Your Grace is for the king ? 
 
 Arch. In dying ears 
 
 To instil earth's latest duty. 
 
 1st Lord. To name Harold? 
 
 {Archbishop assents.) 
 Whisper it not ! But cry it thunder-tongued, 
 Till the earth shake ! Oh ! give it voice enough, 
 Ttll heaven's wide undulations crack with sound ! 
 Once sounded here all hearts shall echo it. 
 
 Arch. I know my duty. Sir. 
 
 is/ Lord. I know thou dost, 
 
 But am too fearful to be reverent. 
 
 Rude times breed rudeness. Go then, good Arch- 
 bishop, 
 Thou bearest a nation's jewel in thy bosom ; 
 Guard it, and flinch not. {Exit Archbishop.) There now 
 
 goes a man 
 In whom the mitre has not chilled the blood. 
 Or quenched the warm heart, of an Englishman ;
 
 32 HAROLD. 
 
 Would all were like him ! Sirs, upon your swords, 
 
 You, noble prelates, witnessing our oath. 
 
 Swear none shall sit upon the throne but Harold. 
 
 Voices. We swear. 
 
 ist Lord. Wait then without until the summons ! 
 
 Now as one tired-out pilot quits the helm, 
 To find another for our battered realm ! 
 'Mid stormy floods see England sink and rise, 
 Her own free master, or the Norman's prize ! 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene V. 
 {Inner chamber. King and Archbishop Alred.) 
 
 King. Absolve me, Father. 
 
 Arch. No ! Not yet ! Not yet I 
 
 King. Wherefore not yet .' I am a dying man. 
 
 Arch. Hast thou done all that fits a dying man .' 
 
 King. What should I do ? 
 
 Arch. Make peace, my son, with Heaven ! 
 
 King. Have I not made it ? Oh, not yet ! not y^t\ 
 So many hostelries as I have built ! 
 So many poor men fed with daily dole ! 
 So many shrines ! So many sanctuaries ! 
 With masses said, and holiest anthems sung 
 By solemn priests, and white-robed choristers, 
 All for xny soul ! and yet — 
 
 Arch. Too little all! 
 
 These are vain crutches for a dying man. 
 
 King. What, would you have me build more hos- 
 pitals ? 
 More couches for distempered tottering age.
 
 HAROLD. 'i^'i^ 
 
 New homes where children, fruit of guilty love, 
 Are tended by pure maids ? 
 
 Arch. Nay, think of one, 
 
 More sick, my son, more ill at ease than all, 
 Now shortly to be orphaned by thy death ! 
 
 King. Mine, Father! Mine! I never broke my vow. 
 I die a childless and a virgin King. 
 
 Arch. Aye, but thy country ! Think of England ! 
 Set 
 Thine house in order ! Would'st thou turn to sleep 
 As careless servants, leaving wide the door, 
 Unwatched, unbarred, for robbery to creep in ? 
 
 King. P'ather, my soul ! 
 
 Arch. First lose thy soul to save it ! 
 If thou wouldst win communion with the blest, 
 First must thou share their sufierings, weep their tears. 
 
 King. How can a parting soul heed things of earth .^ 
 
 Arch. How can a dying king seek peace in heaven. 
 Leaving earth discord .' 
 
 King. Shrive me ! 
 
 Arch. 'Twere unfaithful 
 
 To Him, who set me here His minister. 
 
 King. Hast thou no heart ? Mortality in tears. 
 Crying, and contrite, crushed, and penitent, 
 Thou art not human not to pity it. 
 
 {A pause : the Archbishop turns away.) 
 
 King. Cold, not an atom yields ; inexorable ! 
 Yet has he that which I must have, or die — 
 Die with my sins about me. Cruel man. 
 What would'st thou have me ? 
 
 Arch. So dispose thy kingdom, 
 
 As with the people, and the lords, consenting, 
 
 D
 
 34 HAROLD. 
 
 Shall make our enemies beyond the seas 
 Pause ere they come to conquest ! 
 
 Kins. Wilt thou not 
 
 Absolve me otherwise ? [Aired shakes his head.) Send 
 for the Witan ! 
 
 Arch. They wait without. [Despatches a servant.) 
 
 King. But whom to name my heir? 
 
 Hark, did you hear ? 
 
 Arch. 'Twas nothing. 
 
 King. 'Twas his voice, 
 
 The mighty Duke's. If thus he reach me here, 
 Will he not follow me to the gates of heaven. 
 And all the blessed souls keep far away, 
 So strong, so terrible ? There with him for ever ! 
 Who comes ! 
 
 Arch. The Queen, Sire ! 
 
 (Enter the Queen, ivitli one attendant.) 
 
 King. Man is born to trouble. 
 
 Edith ! 
 
 Queen. My Lord, your summons brought me hither. 
 
 King. Come nearer, wife, and kiss me : I am dying. 
 
 O. Dear love, how changed ! 
 
 King. Best change, to change no farther ! 
 
 Can you forgive me ? Then, when all is known, 
 It will be known I loved thee. 
 
 Q. There, above ! 
 
 King. Where men are angels : but my kingdom, 
 Edith ? 
 O load too heavy for a child of heaven ! 
 Who shall succeed me ? The Archbishop here 
 Would have it, Harold.
 
 HAROLD. 35 
 
 Q- Who so fit as he ? 
 
 So brave, so noble, and so wise as Harold ? 
 
 King. Yet is he of earth, earthy. 
 
 Q- Nay, he founded 
 
 Great Waltham's Abbey. 
 
 King. And set over it, 
 
 Against all rule, authority, and order. 
 An abbot married. 
 
 Q- Yet is he so good, 
 
 The very child will quit his mother's skirt, 
 To come and play upon the knees of Harold 
 
 King. All, all, against me ! 
 
 Arch. Foes forget their feuds 
 
 And join at bidding of a word from Harold. 
 
 King [irresolute). Domine, domine, in te, domine, 
 speravi. 
 
 Arch. He wanders. Quick ! Recall him ! 
 
 Q- Love, last night, 
 
 About the hour when leaden midnight tolls, 
 I had a dream. 
 
 King. A dream? 
 
 Q- And in a robe 
 
 Of splendour, with a more than monarch's mien, 
 I saw one like to Harold sitting throned. 
 
 King. Came it but once ? 
 
 Q- Thrice over, and a cry, 
 
 God save King Harold. 
 
 King. 'Tis a sign. Thrice over ! 
 
 Q. Will you not name him, Edward.? 
 
 King. Ye will have it. 
 
 Attendant {enters). The Witan, Sire ! 
 
 King. Let them come in ! [Murmurs) De profundis 
 
 D 2
 
 36 HA R OLD. 
 
 ad te, Domine, clamavi. {Tells his beads. Queen supports 
 /li/n.) 
 
 Arch. My Lords, the King consenting to your wish, 
 names Harold his kingdom's heir. {Sensation, applause: 
 cries of We are saved from the Normans.') 
 
 {Enter Aylmer, amid disgnsl 0/ Nobles.) 
 
 Ayl. How fares the saintly Edward ? 
 King. Presently ! 
 
 Ayl. Duke William sends thee greeting. 
 King. The great Duke ! 
 
 Ayl. Prayers for thy parting soul go up to heaven 
 In every church and shrine in Normandy. 
 King. Said he, the Duke ? 
 
 Voices. Begone ! No Normans here ! 
 
 {Exit Aylmer wringing his hands: Conspirators seen 
 at the door.) 
 King. See, is he there ? The Duke .' 
 Arch. Nay, fear not, Sire 't 
 
 King. But see ! 
 
 Arch. The Father Aylmer hastes away ; 
 
 The people hoot him. 
 
 King- Safe, yet barely saved ! 
 
 His master also would be king of England. 
 Voices. The Norman ? Never ! 
 
 King. Ye will have it so, 
 
 But whether it be wise the time will show. 
 Or whether it were wiser to submit, 
 God knows. We are blind worms : our best of wisdom 
 Is oftenest folly. 
 
 A Noble. We will serve Harold well, 
 
 Even as you.
 
 HAROLD. 37 
 
 King. Me ? Yes I You partly served me, 
 And more yourselves. Prop up the bolster ! There ! 
 And I have striven in gentle Christian ways, 
 Above the rude ways of this naughty world, 
 To lift you higher, to make you Christian men. 
 But failed : yes, failed. God would not have it so. 
 His times are not our times, nor His thoughts ours ; 
 Our years His moments, centuries His j^ears ; 
 So need we patience in our vast desires — 
 For many stars must quench ere close of night. 
 And many lamps go out before the dawn ; 
 But it will come, the dawn. {Falls back exhausted: Queen 
 and Archbishop revive him : then, holding tip the Cross.) 
 
 Arch. Pray for us, hoi}' king, where you are going. 
 
 King, [starting up ivith eyes fixed and staring). 
 I saw them on the mountains, like to sheep. 
 Multitudes 1 Multitudes, with slaughtering wolves. 
 Scattered abroad, and none to shepherd them. 
 
 A Noble. Who, Sire ? 
 
 King. Who, ask you ? And the darkened sun 
 Went down in blood : and stars rose bloody-red : 
 And the moon blushed all blood : and earth beneath 
 Was white with dead men's bones : and lo ! a cry, 
 A piercing cry that tingled up to heaven ! 
 
 A A'oble. From whom. Sire ? 
 
 King. From whom .' From 3'ou, my people, from 
 you ! And a voice cried, Lamentation ! Anguish ! Moan I 
 Trouble to England ! Trouble to England I Sanguelac I 
 Sanguelac ! The lake of blood ! the lake of blood ! The 
 day of the Lord I terrible, terrible I Ah God, in mercy 
 save them ! Blood, blood, blood ! ( Tableau representing 
 the field of Hastings. Falls back dead. Curtain falls.)
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I. 
 
 {Room in Harold's house in London. Gurth.) 
 
 Gurth. I do not like these plots : they savour more 
 Of Norman fineness than of English honour. 
 Yet Harold king, and England all united, 
 The rest runs easy : but— the way to it ! 
 O'er thy sweet life, poor Edith! Hark! He comes. 
 
 {Enter Harold.) 
 
 Harold. To England false or to myself forsworn ! 
 Rebel and traitor to the truth within, 
 Or to all truth, perjured and false for ever ! 
 
 Gurth. Harold ! 
 
 Har. Men die, yet sometimes from their graves 
 Peer up ill secrets like half-buried bones. 
 With some half-truth to blast our memories. 
 
 G. Peace, peace ! 
 
 Har. What tyrant even in ancient times, 
 When men with heated pincers tore the flesh, 
 'And racked the body, yet left free the mind. 
 Did ever such a poisoned draught prepare 
 For his worst enemy ? 
 
 G. Alas, my brother ! 
 
 O Norman fiend '
 
 HAROLD. 39 
 
 Har. Would I could meet him here ! 
 Here with these naked and defenceless hands, 
 Reckless of vantage ! he in proof, full-armed ! 
 From his false heart I'd wring my promise back 
 And be myself again. 
 
 G. (approaching). Nay, be thyself! 
 
 The holy Father hath absolved thine oath ; 
 'Tis washed away. 
 
 Har. Can he wash out the shame, 
 
 The inward loathing, the inveterate scorn. 
 The hatred and the horror of myself, 
 Which, like a stain of rust upon a sword. 
 Gnaws in my soul ! Shall I not be once more 
 The man I was, whole, flawless, with no thought 
 To which the rude world might not enter in. 
 To spy out falsehood ? Shall I start at shadows, 
 Fear eyes, dread whispers, shrink from slanderous 
 
 tongues, 
 Brave to the world, aghast at solitude. 
 Things once I flouted like a tainted breath 
 To pass unheeding onward ? 
 
 G. Ah, for Edith! 
 
 Har. Edith, what says she ! 
 
 G. That in this low world, 
 
 Where good and ill, so cross, so intermingle, 
 ('Twould seem some Devil marred the plan divine), 
 That 'twixt the bramble and the precipice. 
 Goodness must often lose its life or fleece. 
 There are some deeds hard to distinguish ; good 
 Not wholly, nor ill wholly. 
 
 {Edith heard calling, ' Harold ! ') 
 
 Har. Hark ! her voice !
 
 40 HAROLD. 
 
 Edith [enters, singing). 
 
 In the merry, merry Spring, when the sweet birds do sing, 
 
 And the young corn tips the furrow : 
 Then the dead earth breaks, and the dead heart wakes, 
 
 And we bury the winter's sorrow. 
 
 Har. Bury it, aye, sweet soul, but deep, deep, deep. 
 Or it will out, like murder from its tomb. 
 E. (sings). 
 
 In the Autumn drear, when the leaves are sere, 
 
 And the mist Ues in the hollow. 
 Then we mount and ride by the yellow wood-side, 
 
 In the track of the deer to follow. 
 
 Har. The song I taught her ! Lo, my wound less 
 bleeds ; 
 Saint, thou art known by working miracles. 
 
 [Enter Messenger, announcing approach of the Witan. 
 GuRTH speaks to Harold.) 
 
 Har. {impatiently). Witan and Work anon ! 
 
 G. ' They bring with them 
 
 A crown. 
 
 Har. And she a kingdom, and a life : 
 
 Edith ! 
 
 E. My love ! But what ? Thou art not well. 
 
 Har. 'Tis nothing. 
 
 E. Nothing? Would 'twere some- 
 
 thing! Once 
 I knew a maid, whose cheek was like the lily. 
 Drooping and pale, until she faded quite 
 And died of such a nothing : yet her w^ord 
 Was always nothing : and she bade us write
 
 HAROLD. 41 
 
 Only, she died of nothing, on her tomb. 
 Thou art not well. 
 
 Har. It is the time is sick. 
 
 And we, who on our shoulders bear its greatness, 
 Catch its infection. 
 
 E. Let me share thy plague ! 
 
 Har. Enough for one to suffer ! 
 
 E. Then that one 
 
 Be me ! I have in me a virgin strength, 
 Fresh, unexhausted, as a fountain's source 
 Feeding an ocean. Let me — 
 
 Har. Let thee suffer .^ 
 
 My darkness cloud thee? 
 
 E. Clouds rest not on me, 
 
 But on thy summits, where the eagles clang. 
 
 Har. Those treacherous summits, where one fatal 
 slip 
 May drag a soul to ruin ! 
 
 E. 'Tis thine oath. 
 
 Har. It is my oath. 
 
 E. And must thou bear the blame 
 
 Like some poor wretch, while he thy soiler lives 
 Happy and honoured ? 
 
 Har. 'Tis the way o' the world. 
 
 E. It is the way o' the baser half of the world 
 To brand the victim not the criminal. 
 Think not upon them ! 
 
 Har. Think not ? Then, not live I 
 
 Live without honour ! Live, reproach of all ! 
 
 E. Nay, live until their venom choke itself; 
 'Tis in ourselves that we are honourable. 
 
 Har. How in ourselves, knowing ourselves forsworn .-
 
 42 HA R OLD. 
 
 E. Sworn to dishonour, 'twere dishonour's crown 
 To keep that oath. 
 
 Har. But break it for my gain, 
 
 Gaining a crown I 
 
 E. Gaining a suffering load ! 
 
 Har. The splendour seen, the load invisible ! 
 Nay, love, thou knowest not : who in woman's form 
 Can know man's honour ? 
 
 E. Not, as men have made it. 
 
 Distorted, false, and jangled, dialect ; 
 But of true honour, language of the skies, 
 We women know — 
 
 Har. Thou art an angel, Edith. 
 
 G. Then as an angel hear her, and come back 
 To thought for us and England ! 
 
 Har. Give me time. 
 
 Give me more time ! Then, as the crowned oak, 
 Deep in whose bosom lies the thunderbolt, 
 A leafy monarch scarred with grief unseen, 
 I'll hide where I was riven. 
 
 E. Wear thou this flower 
 
 Eor me ! 
 
 Har. Thy flower, thy jasmine ! 
 
 E. As it breathes 
 
 Sweetest in darkness, so true virtue shows 
 Most glorious in affliction. Fare thee well ! 
 
 {Enter a servant, ' The Witan, Sire I ') 
 
 Har. Let them come in ! 
 They bring with them a crown to share with thee. 
 E. Oh, Harold, thou art all the crown I ask. {Exit. 
 Har. Let in the Witan !
 
 HAR OLD. 
 
 43 
 
 {Enter Bishops, Lords, and others bearing the Crown.) 
 
 Giirth. See, they come to offer 
 The crown of England. {Harold does not speak.) Bid 
 them welcome, Harold ! 
 
 Har. {murmuring). His, his, not mine ! or mine to 
 give it him ! 
 
 G. Nay, England's to bestow on whom she will. 
 
 Har. {recovering himself). My Lords, ye are welcome. 
 
 Bishop. We are come, Earl Harold, 
 Prelate, peer, burgess, few presenting all. 
 To offer thee the crown, which thou hast long 
 As subject guarded ; nay, as votary rather, 
 As votary, who passing oft the shrine 
 Didst never raise unchastened lawless thought 
 Madly to covet its imperial gleam, 
 Nor gaze at save to worship. Now at last 
 Take it, 'tis — 
 
 Har. Stay ! ere yet the word once spoken 
 
 Fly past recall. I would be open with you. 
 Plain truth, plain dealing, I have ever loved ; 
 And now I hate all ways but openness. 
 Good prelates, lords, and worthy men of England, 
 Hear me a short sad tale ! Come nearer, Gurth, 
 Let me lean on thee ! 
 
 Lord. Nay, we all have heard 
 
 Thy promise to the Norman. 
 
 Har. Have ye heard 
 
 The oath ? 
 
 Lord. We have heard it. 
 
 Har. All its horror? 
 
 Lord. All !
 
 44 HAROLD. 
 
 Citizen. And care not. 'Twas a trick unworthy him, 
 Not binding thee. 
 
 Lord. And if it be a sin, 
 
 These church-made fetters let the church set free 
 With penance ! 
 
 Har. Nay, think not the horror haunts me ! 
 
 I have been nursed in such a school of honour. 
 My simple word as English gentleman 
 Had held me firmer than a hundred oaths, 
 Sworn upon grinning skulls and reliquaries : 
 But others, but the people .'' 
 
 Lord. With our lives 
 
 We answer for them. 
 
 Har. Yet, there is a plan : 
 
 Sirs, stay a little. Ye have the Atheling with you ; 
 Though young he may be guided. In him flows 
 The blood of Alfred. I will fight for him ; 
 Whatever is of strength, or wit, in Harold, 
 Shall serve him as myself I had rather be 
 Free, and not first, than foremost with a crown 
 Whose brightest gem was wanting. Sirs, what say ye ? 
 
 Lord. At such a time no child can govern England. 
 
 All. None, none but Harold. 
 
 Har. Yet the oath ! Ye will not 
 
 Love me the less, that so I swore it, thinking 
 "Twas for your good ? 
 
 Lord. Love less .' Nay, rather, more ! 
 
 Which of us has not sometime broken oath 
 To lord, or lady? Never frown at me. 
 Sir Prelate ! Would I had that field again 
 I gave you when — 
 
 Bishop. Dear Sire, these noble fears
 
 HAROLD. 45 
 
 But bind thee to us closer, us to thee. 
 
 Har. Then, if ye be so willed to put this on me, 
 I take the crown. A people gives it me, 
 And for the people's good I keep and guard it ; 
 Ware he, who touches ! O narrow circle, yet 
 Girdling a world ! {Takes it and puts it on //is head.) 
 
 Light orb, it can be weighed ; 
 A hand can lift it, and its pressure leaves 
 No wrinkle save one moment's on the brow : 
 Yet on the heart its daily, hourly, load 
 Sits heavier than a mountain. Still, good Sirs, 
 Proud and most grateful for the love you bear me, 
 I take the crown. And now to bind up all 
 Into one heart : knit tighter resolution : 
 The coldness and the lingering heat of valour 
 Fan till it blaze : and in each English bosom 
 Raise such a wrath shall make men thrice themselves, 
 Valiant to cope with triple adversaries ! 
 All must to arms : all, like the noble Roman, 
 Give up their best possession : for know this, 
 That ere our preparations have an end, 
 Each man a soldier, and our coast secure. 
 The Norman, long expecting such a time. 
 Will be upon us. Hence ! Each of you bears 
 The fate of England. Arm ! Unite ! Obey ! 
 
 {Applause. Exeunt, with Aired.) 
 Go with them, Gurth ! {E.xit G.) 'Tis done. The first 
 
 step conquered. 
 The second follows : Edith, thou art mine ! 
 O Love, whose bright illumination came. 
 Piercing, and turning all my gloom to gold, 
 How wilt thou, as a sunbeam at my side.
 
 46 HAROLD. 
 
 Bless every hour ! But hush ! 'tis Aired comes : 
 Once more, good Father ! 
 
 {Re-enter Alred.) 
 
 Arch. Hail to thee, King Harold ! 
 
 I have a plaint to thee. 
 
 Har. Speak on, I pray you. 
 
 Of whom ? 
 
 Arch. Of one, who, at our borders posted, 
 Set in the fairest castle in this realm, 
 Sleeps at his post, and for a woman's smile 
 Abandons sovereign duty. 
 
 Har. He shall rue it ; 
 
 This ill-example in those highest placed 
 Creeps downward, and, infecting manhood's flower, 
 Breeds bitter fruit of wide incontinence. 
 What is his name ? 
 
 Arch. King Harold. 
 
 Har. Who ? 
 
 Arch. Thyself 
 
 Har. What have I done ? 
 
 Arch. Hast thou not set thy heart 
 
 To wed thy cousin Edith ? 
 
 Har. If I have ? 
 
 Arch. Thou mayest not have her. So the Church 
 has ordered. 
 And the Church is — 
 
 Har. The enemy of man ! 
 
 Arch. How? 
 
 Har. O ye torturers, ye men of wiles, 
 
 Ye saints, ye would-be angels, making men, 
 Who may not climb your heights impracticable,
 
 HAROLD. 47 
 
 Splendid, but loveless, freezing solitudes. 
 Plunge into depths of devils ! Hence, vain man, 
 Come not between me, and the maid I love ! 
 
 Arch. Harold, is this a time to dream of love, 
 When England's foe stands threatening at our doors. 
 All through thine oath ? 
 
 Har. It w^as against my will. 
 
 Mocker, thou knowest, against my will I swore it. 
 
 Arch. Yet never oath was more expressly spoken, 
 And never word more glaringl}'^ forsworn. 
 
 Har. Man without pity ! 
 
 Arch. And is this a time, 
 
 When England weeps, that England's merry king. 
 Pleasure his law, a royal libertine. 
 Like Nero harping 'mid his Roman flames, 
 Should lie in love's lap, dreaming ? 
 
 Har. Monk, thou pratest 
 
 Of that thou knowest not. 
 
 Arch. Know not ! 
 
 Har. We are one, 
 
 One altogether, separate but in name; 
 Twin hands love-clasped, that move but with one will : 
 Twin hearts, like harpstrings, trembling to one tone : 
 Feet that in all the dusty ways o' the world 
 Step to one music : ears that hear one tune : 
 And in the shifting, various scenes of time 
 Twin eyes that see one picture. Yet this love 
 You would dissever .' 
 
 Arch. Hard not to yield ! and yet, 
 
 Yet I must do it. {Aside.) O Harold, O my king, 
 I thought thee one of earth's true noble ones, 
 In this untoward, this degenerate age,
 
 4H HAROLD. 
 
 A touchstone, and a very test of honour ; 
 
 Whom passion's blast, though shattering rocks beside. 
 
 Stirred not from its storm-beaten pedestal. 
 
 And now I find thee — 
 
 Har. What ? 
 
 Arch. For a mere girl, 
 
 Lacking man's crown of virtue, fortitude, 
 Ready to fire the world ! 
 
 Har. What wouldst thou have me ? 
 
 Arch. Wed not thy cousin ! Fear the Church's ban ! 
 
 Har. And then ? 
 
 Arch. Unite all England, North and South, 
 
 Saxon and Dane, and Welshman— 
 
 Har. By ? 
 
 Arch. A marriage ! 
 
 Har. With whom? 
 
 Arch. With Aldyth ! 
 
 Har. Never ! Thou, a priest. 
 
 Counsel me thus? Thou, Truth's ambassador, 
 Bid me enmesh my still entangled spirit 
 With one more lie ? 
 
 Arch. What have I bid thee do? 
 
 Har. To wed a woman whom I cannot love ? 
 
 Arch. To wed a duty, loftiest love of all ! 
 
 Har. To be the father of a hated race ? 
 
 Arch. To be a father to all Englishmen ! 
 
 Har. To sit beside a listless, loveless hearth? 
 
 Arch. To make all hearths sing on, and joy for ever ! 
 
 Har. No more, I cannot. If it be a choice 
 'Twixt love and England — 
 
 [Enter Gurth and Haco.) 
 
 Gurth. England shall come first.
 
 HAROLD. 49 
 
 Har. Gurth, brother, you ! 
 
 G. What Rome to Roman was, 
 
 More than the love of mother, wife, or maid, 
 That — Harold, it was you who taught us so, — 
 Should England be to noblest Englishmen. 
 
 Har. Words, words ! Nay, any sacrifice, but this ! 
 
 G. Harold, I love a maid, and ere yon moon, 
 Now crescent, orb into its perfect shield, 
 Trust to be wedded : but, at England's call, 
 I would forget her, banish her from my heart, 
 Divorce her memory utterly from my mind. 
 And there in that ungarnished room set up, 
 Once bright with all the flowers that fancy weaves, 
 No image save of duty. 
 
 Har. And for ever 
 
 You could do this .'' 
 
 G. For ever ! 
 
 Haco. What is ever 
 
 In this short life? Love's roses quickly fade: 
 Fame only lives. 
 
 Har. But it is infamous 
 
 For fame to give up all that makes fame dear. 
 Truth to myself, and her. 
 
 Hac. O Harold, friend, 
 
 Art thou so raised above all other men, 
 A head and shoulders taller than the world. 
 To sink into the flat, and common ooze, 
 With low earth-grovelling creatures ? 
 
 Har. Boy, you dream. 
 
 Hac. I dream : but dreamers in their darkness see 
 Things day-blind passion sees not. I was born 
 Of sorrow. Sorrow took me to herself, 
 
 E
 
 _5o HA R OLD. 
 
 Tausht me her secrets, made me sorrow-wise ; 
 And therefore joys that puddle happier souls 
 Leave mine eyes crystal. 
 
 Hor. And as cold withal : 
 
 Hearts dead to loving, though with eagle-eyes, 
 See only on the surface. Cease, I bid you. 
 This is my matter. To your station, Sirs! 
 
 {Walks up and down in great excitement: they gather 
 together.) 
 
 G. You have angered him. 
 
 Hac. 'Tis a good sign. 
 
 Arch. How a good sign ? 
 
 Hac. Had he said nothing, or smiled as he said. No, 
 I should have feared him_ : but he is angry : the truth is 
 with us. There is storm within. 
 
 G. This is cold comfort, Haco. 
 
 Arch. There will be interdicts, anathemas ! The dead 
 will lie unburied. I will speak to him. 
 
 Hac. Stay ! 
 
 Arch. In the name of holy Church. 
 
 Hac. And you will ruin all. 
 
 Arch. What then, in God's name, should I say? 
 
 Hac. Nothing ! Let Edith speak to him ! 
 
 Arch. Edith? The victim plead the sacrifice! 
 
 Hac. Let her say, Renounce me, give me up, and 
 we are safe. If not — 
 
 Arch. It is too dangerous. 
 
 Hac. It is the only way. 
 
 G. He is right, Father, he is right. Edith is Harold's 
 better self. 
 
 Hac. But you must see her, Gurth, not I. You can 
 feel for her loss. I can only— see ours.
 
 HAROLD. 5T 
 
 (Harold approaches.') 
 
 G. Brother, I go. 
 
 Har. Whither? 
 
 G. To Edith. 
 
 Har. Why ? 
 
 G. To tell her of our trouble, and its cause. 
 Let her decide between us ! 
 
 Har. Her decision 
 
 Is made already. 
 
 G. Thou wilt abide by it .' 
 
 Har. As by my own. 
 
 G. Farewell ! 
 
 Har. Thou wilt tell her ? 
 
 G. Truth. 
 
 Har. I trust thee. Go ! and leave me all, I pray you. 
 I would be here alone, and with myself 
 Hold consultation. Friends, farewell ; I thank you. 
 
 [Exeunt Gurth, Haco, Aired. 
 
 Har. {approaching a velvet cushion on which lies the 
 crown). 
 Let the crown go ! Too much I have adventured 
 For high ambition. W^hat is't to me worth 
 This gold, this dross, this paltry thing of metal, 
 Whose glare is borrowed from the false esteem 
 Of flatterers' eyes, if for it I must trample 
 The heart that loves me, and upon its wrack 
 Mount upward to a throne ? I will not do it. 
 Already once my broken oath condemns me ; 
 Will it not plunge me deeper, doubly-damned, 
 With my first act of royal greatness thus 
 To break another? and— for it was a woman, 
 Weak, lone, unchampioned, friendless but for me —
 
 S2 HAROLD. 
 
 Laugh at her woes ? ' Kings' mantles cover all : 
 She was too fond : who recks a woman's pain, 
 Light pleasure's toy, forgot in grander cares? 
 Vows, honour, all, were nothing.' Perish rather! 
 If England need me, let her take my service 
 Free and unbound ! As slave I cannot serve her. 
 He is a king, whose will is all his own ; 
 And, where the heart is happy, is a throne. 
 
 \Throws down the crown, and exit. 
 
 Scene IL 
 
 {Room in Priory, in London, ivith Oratory attaclied : enter Nuns 
 singing Alleluia duke carmen! BeJiind ttieni tlie Queen witii 
 Edith, wlio stay, ivliile Nuns enter Oratory.) 
 
 Queen. Sweet music, worthier of the Courts above ! 
 Is it not, Edith ? 
 
 Edith. Sweet, and yet most sad ! 
 
 Q. Why sad ? they sing of bliss. 
 
 £ But sing in sorrow 
 
 Q. How? If they ever grieved, their grief is old. 
 
 E. Old, but the pain is young as Cupid's fire. 
 
 Q. Hush, child ! 
 
 E. Some are there who have loved in vain. 
 Who pierced their maiden heart upon a thorn. 
 And still bleed inward : some who loved a dream, 
 And waking wept to find it but a dream : 
 And some who, gathered young in life's cool dawn. 
 Ere yet the swelling bosom knew its power, 
 Took cruel vows, and wedded brides of heaven, 
 Long ere hot noon repented. Ah, too late ! 
 Too late, sweet sisters ! While ye sing of hope,
 
 HA RO LD. ^-i^ 
 
 Straining to join on high the angehc choir, 
 
 As in some crystal fountain curdUng up 
 
 Sad earth's foul stain, so from your heart of hearts 
 
 Wells up through hope's bright radiance dark despair. 
 
 Q. Yet are they happy. 
 
 E. Hush ! 
 
 {Nuns heard singing : 
 
 Miserere rex coelorum ! Miserere miserorum !) 
 
 Is that happiness ? 
 Q. Stay ! {they sing: 
 
 Nemo potest cogitare, 
 Quantum erit exultare, 
 Tunc in coelis habitantem, 
 Et cum angelis regnantem.) 
 
 With angels ! Yes, 'tis happy. 
 
 E. But above ! 
 
 What is't to us, cold, in the chilly night. 
 That distant gleam of morning far-away. 
 Not here ! not now ? That is not happiness. 
 The summer painted is not really summer : 
 And joy deferred to a too distant date 
 Is misery gilded over. 
 
 Q. Daughter, peace ! 
 
 E. Sweet lady, I have vexed you ? 
 
 Q. Earth is naught, 
 
 'Tis very naught. 
 
 E. Not always did you think so, 
 
 Not in sweet youth. 
 
 O. Yes, I was withered young. 
 
 E. Not withered. 
 
 Q. Wooed, and wedded in my prime ; 
 
 Then as a meteor from the firmament,
 
 54 IIAROL D. 
 
 That dazzles for a moment, then 'tis gone, 
 Hurled into sudden depths of darkness down, 
 Spurned wife, scorned woman, and insulted queen. 
 
 E. Alas ! I grieve you with these memories. 
 
 Q. Men are so hard. 
 
 E. So hard ? 
 
 O. Is it ambition 
 
 Spurs them ? Then woman as an idle toy 
 Must be put by. Religion ? She must yield. 
 Some newer fancy when our charms grow old ! 
 Then, as spring- roses glittering o'er dead leaves, 
 Man's summer-heart runs wanton. All caprices, 
 All whims, all frailties, ever charged on woman, 
 Were first by man invented. 
 
 E. Is it so ? 
 
 Yet I love Harold. 
 
 Q. Hush, it is forbidden. 
 
 E. By cruel men. 
 
 Q. O sin to label thus 
 
 The will of heaven ! 
 
 E. O greater sin to ban 
 
 What heaven has made so tender, so divine ! 
 
 Q. Is't so? Thou lovest him very dearl}^, Edith? 
 Yet though he be so dear, yet root him out ! 
 
 E. I cannot root him out, unless I root 
 M}' own heart also. 
 
 Q. Let that go as well ! 
 
 Cut off the moiety of corrupted nature. 
 To save the other and diviner half ! 
 Save thine own soul : it is an evil time. 
 Listen! [Nuns sing:
 
 HAROLD. ^$ 
 
 Quum revolvo moritura 
 Quid post mortem sim futiira, 
 Terret me dies futura, 
 Quam expecto non secura.) 
 
 awful in that hour, to be not sure ! 
 E. Love is so sweet. 
 
 Q. But heaven is sweeter still. 
 
 E. What would you have me? [gazing at sprig of 
 jasmine in her hand). 
 
 Q. Lay that jasmine down, 
 
 Sweet though it be, and breathing wedded joys, 
 Climbing about the lover's bedchamber : 
 Take up the lily ! (offering one). Its calm lot be 
 
 thine : 
 Soul of the woodlands, hid in virgin shades, 
 Companion to the lovelorn nightingale, 
 Fleeing the world for maiden innocence. 
 See, Edith, choose! Angels are listening near 
 To greet heaven's bride. [A pause.) Sweet child ! 
 
 E. I cannot do it. 
 
 1 may not do it : for my heart is Harold's : 
 And even on the awful altar-stair, 
 Breathing high vows, or bent in cloister pale, 
 Kneeling before the sinless Crucified, 
 'Twere Harold's still. And oh ! what perjury. 
 What perjury though for immortal gain. 
 
 For million, million, years of joy in heaven, 
 To live on earth forsworn ! No, Lady, no, 
 Ask me no more ! The eagle has its sphere. 
 Above, self-poised, in brightness near the sun ; 
 Let me, a lowlier linnet of the grove,
 
 ^^j6 HA R OLD. 
 
 Cling to warm earth, and in a love-built nest 
 Thrill one true ear with music. 
 
 Q. Must it be? 
 
 O God, O God, I would have saved her. Go ! 
 Bend thy proud heart ! Be humble ! Earth is naught. 
 Go to your oratory and pray ! Yet stop, 
 Sweet Edith, hither ! O wondrous beauty ! Form 
 As of an angel ! Eyes not made for tears : 
 Made but for love ! I would have saved thee. Go ! 
 
 {Exit Edith to Oratory. 
 
 {Nuns sing: 
 
 Miserere rex coelorum, &c.) 
 
 {Enter GuRTH.) 
 
 Gurth. Where is she now ? 
 
 Q. She prays. 
 
 G. She has need of it. 
 
 Poor Edith! 
 
 Q. Flesh and blood are strong in her. 
 
 Her nature, like the pebbles on the beach. 
 Shines not till it be watered, washed in tears. 
 
 G. Leave her to me! Her love for him is such. 
 That sooner than offend his path to honour, 
 She '11 whet herself the sacrificial steel, 
 And win to Troy through maiden sacrifice. 
 
 {Re-enter Edith.) ' 
 
 E. Gurth, you bring news, sad news. 
 
 G. How know you, Edith, 
 
 Ere I have spoken ? 
 
 E. How? 'Tis in thy face, 
 
 Harold is — 
 
 G. Well !
 
 HAROLD. 57 
 
 E. Yet something — 
 
 G. Come with me 1 
 
 Come to yon window ! See, the wind is fair. 
 
 E. Fairest of all ! It is the sweet, sweet South, 
 Which visiting young Summer, his fair bride. 
 Fills her with perfume. 
 
 G. And it fills the sails 
 
 Of England's dreadest foe, whose legions dire 
 Cover the seas, awaiting but one word, 
 To break in tempest o'er us. 
 
 E. Ruthless man ! 
 
 G. And in all England lives there but one arm 
 That can withstand him. Dost thou know it, Edith ? 
 
 E. Harold's ! 
 
 G. The king's ! Yet has he sworn, alas I 
 
 By mouldering .relic, and by fleshless bone. 
 From ghostly crypt, or solemn sanctuary, 
 Whose ancient awe lies heavy on men's souls. 
 To aid this man. 
 
 E. I know it. 
 
 G. And weak hearts 
 
 Think him for this accurst. 
 
 E. And shrink to follow 
 
 Where he so gallantly would lead them on. 
 
 G. And then his love, start not ! his love for thee. 
 Banned by the Church, is one more obstacle. 
 
 E. Our love, ah me ! But stay ; one question, Gurth. 
 He sent you here ? 
 
 G. He dreamt not I was coming. 
 
 Until I told him. 
 
 E. And he spake of this— 
 
 This obstacle ?
 
 58 HA RO LD. 
 
 G. The verj'' hint of it 
 
 So moved him, shook his giant oaken strength, 
 I thought he would have fallen. 
 
 E. Noble Harold! 
 
 G. Thou art so rooted in him, so entwined. 
 Sooner than grieve thee, he would both together, 
 High-arching elm, and lowly-trellised vine, 
 Dashed by one earthquake o'er a precipice. 
 Plunged downward to the fall. 
 
 E. Then I must save him. 
 
 But stay. What if we wed not? Speak, I pray you. 
 Have I not in me the same blood as Harold ? 
 Speak, I can bear it. 
 
 G. It were politic. 
 
 To reunite all parties in the kingdom, 
 Saxon and Dane, and show against the Norman 
 One bristling undivided front of war, 
 He wed another. 
 
 E. Whom ? Hide nothing ! Whom ? 
 
 Thou dost not speak ! 
 
 G. I fear to grieve thee. 
 
 E. Speak ! 
 
 G. Aldyth ! 
 
 E. That woman with the cold grey eye? 
 
 Had you but named another, and not her! 
 
 G. I feared that it would vex you ; yet she stands 
 Second to none in estimation, none 
 In wealth, war's needed sinews. 
 
 E. And you would 
 
 Sell him to her? 
 
 G. She brings with her as dower 
 
 Rich Mercia's strength, with all Northumberland.
 
 HAROLD. 59 
 
 E. Mercia, her Mercia ? 
 
 G. Through her brothers' aid ! 
 
 E. What is the surety for her promises ? 
 
 G. Her interest ! 
 
 E. Not his ? O gossamer bond, 
 
 Lighter than air ! False viper double-tongued, 
 Slaying its shelterer ! Love has nothing double, 
 Not even a heartache. Oh ! but say, she loves him, 
 Him, not his throne, his not her interest ; 
 And then, as Hagar in the v^^ilderness, 
 I will go forth with my great grief alone, 
 Leaving her in his bosom ; I the while, * 
 
 Like Babylon amid her desert sands, 
 A ruined shrine of old idolatry. 
 
 {A pause.) 
 You do not say she loves him ? 
 
 G. Speak no more ! 
 
 We must — 
 
 E. She is not worthy of his love. 
 
 G. But she has power. 
 
 E. O God, and what is love ? 
 
 Is it not power? 
 
 G. To hurt the thing you love ; 
 
 Yes, it is power. 
 
 E. Ungenerous, unlike Gurth ! 
 
 There Haco spoke. 
 
 G. And if she be not worthy, 
 
 The clearer will it be to all the world. 
 That Harold, loving Edith more than ever, 
 Loved England dearer. 
 
 E. Oh, could I but die ! 
 
 Die in this hour, beyond the reach of pain !
 
 6o HA R OLD. 
 
 (Enter Alred.) 
 
 Arch. Die not, but live, and live to pray for Harold ! 
 
 E. My Father! 
 
 Arcli. May the blessed saints above, 
 
 Who suffered, and through suftering grew more strong, 
 Aid thy decision ! 
 
 E. My decision ? No ! 
 
 1 have decided. 
 
 Arch. Ah, so soon ! 
 
 G. But hear her ! 
 
 E. Think not I doubt ! When brothers say, Give up ! 
 Women must yield. Could I have lived so long, 
 Loved by a man, the noblest of the world, 
 Yet learn from him no mastery? Could I bear. 
 When Harold suffered, to hear the hiss of scorn, 
 ' All for a woman ! ' or when the vulture Care 
 Preyed upon England's heart, and victory fled 
 False to his standard, bear men's whispered groan, 
 ' It was her fault ! she was the guilty cause ; 
 Another Helen ! ' And then— my heart would break. 
 
 G. Dear Edith I Noble woman ! 
 
 E. Better far 
 
 To break at once ! break now ! than hang for ever 
 A mill-stone round the neck of him I love, 
 A canker at the core of England's weal, 
 And, with them slowl}^ dying, slowly die. 
 
 (Falls at the Queen's feet : Gurth on one side, leaning on his sword : 
 the Archbishop with his Crazier on the other. Enter Harold.) 
 
 Har. Edith, I come. But wherefore liest thou there. 
 Prone at men's feet ? Look up ! 'Tis Harold calls, 
 Harold no longer king but of thy love. 
 Look up, and say to all the powers of Rome,
 
 HAROLD. 6l 
 
 Thou wilt be mine. No answer ? Edith, love, 
 Speak ! Have they told thee ? Gurth ? 
 
 G. I told her all 
 
 The hard, hard truth. 
 
 Har. False lie ! You told not all, 
 
 Told not this oath. Hear me ! I swear, if England 
 Woo me, with all her wealth, her power, her pride. 
 Its price thy love : its loss, the losing thee : 
 So help me heaven, I will not — 
 
 E. Swear not, Harold ! 
 
 Thou must be king. 
 
 Har. King, and let others choose — 
 
 The rabble choose, a priest their oracle, — 
 The lion's bride ! I will be more than king : 
 Clad in the simple baldrick of an earl. 
 With thee beside me, I will teach the world 
 What 'tis to live. The name is not the thing, 
 Free life, with honour, only make the king. 
 
 E. Thou must be king. 
 
 Har. And thou.? 
 
 E. I will live on 
 
 To pray for thee ! 
 
 Har. Thy husband ? 
 
 E. Nay, far more ! 
 
 Har. What more ? 
 
 E. My idol ! I thy worshipper. 
 
 Har. Worship ! I ask not worship. Live for love ! 
 My love ! 
 
 E. I may not, if it ruin England. 
 
 Har. And is this all ? 
 
 E. Oh, break not treacherous heart! 
 
 It must be all.
 
 62 HAROLD. 
 
 Har. Have I then given my heart, 
 
 To one so sUght, inconstant, variable, 
 That at a mumming priest's first threatening word, 
 Whose monk-made canon thwarts the Eternal's law. 
 She casts me off, and scatters to all the winds 
 Vows that she swore everlasting ? 
 
 E. Can it be ? 
 
 Har. I thought her truer than her lightest word, 
 Fonder than oaths could make her, faithful still 
 Though not a vow told her fidelity ; 
 And now I find her — 
 
 E. Is it come to this, 
 
 This, Harold? 
 
 Har. Wherefore did'st thou twine my heart, 
 So cunningly, I knew not 'twas entwined? 
 So sweetly, life seemed Eden ? Did I smile, 
 Thy smile did echo mine : or speak, thou seemedst 
 Rapt on my words, all wonder, all attention : 
 Threw I the rein to fancy, thy light wit 
 Sudden as lightning, swifter than the spheres, 
 Would give my duller thought in brightness back. 
 Gold for mere silver. Was I melancholy. 
 Weighed down with coming greatness, thy sweet voice 
 Cooing as dove, and soft as midsummer. 
 Flute-like would charm my seated cares away. 
 Till very grief grew gladness. Yet all this. 
 This smile, this wit, this charm, this manner fond. 
 This melting kindness, all this sorcery, 
 Most exquisite, or else most execrable. 
 Was nothing in the world but woman's art; 
 Thou did'st not love me. 
 
 E. I not love thee, Harold!
 
 HAROLD. 6^ 
 
 Har. No ! 
 
 E. And must women die to prove their love ? 
 
 Q. Brother, I have known love, and love to me 
 Has been no pastime, but the pain of years : 
 Yet loved I Edward less than Edith thee. 
 
 E. Nay, let me speak ! Do you remember, Harold, 
 One evening^'twas a breathless Autumn eve, 
 The sun hung low, red o'er the burnished mere, 
 The winds slept, and the soughing reeds were still — 
 We stood beside a new-made sepulchre : 
 A soldier slept there, victim of our wars : 
 And j'ou said, ' Happy are the brave who die 
 By England loved and honoured ! ' Those your words, 
 And they burnt in me : and, so lit in calm. 
 Such fires should be our guide in stress and storm. 
 
 Har. Edith, forgive ! 
 
 E. O dearest, noblest, best, 
 
 Who loves his country needs no love beyond, 
 No other bride save England. All his life 
 He toils for her : and she, she cheers him on 
 As' he moves upward; suffers when he bleeds, 
 Bleeds when he suflFers ; triumphs now he wins ; 
 Deep in her heart inscribes his victories : 
 And when he dies, her name upon his lips. 
 Each breath a blessing, each farewell a prayer. 
 Then Spartan-like she clasps him to her breast. 
 Proud in her grief, and by her hero's grave 
 Unfading keeps his memory fresh with tears. 
 
 Har. Dreams, these are dreams : you know not : 
 Edith, love, 
 Recall those words ! You know not what they mean : 
 You cannot live without me.
 
 64 HA ROLD. 
 
 E. Yet those words, 
 
 From you I learnt them. 
 
 Har. No, I said it not: 
 
 I could not say it. If it cast out love, 
 Life's necessary, pure, creative spring. 
 Source of all good, best nurse of noble deeds, 
 The very sacrifice may grow a sin, 
 Gift not to God, but demons. 
 
 £•_ Do not tempt me ! 
 
 O Harold, be the wing to bear me up. 
 Not the arch-enemy to drag me down ! 
 Hell Ues beneath yon show of happiness. 
 
 Har. Hell ! it is heaven. Come ! {opening his arms). 
 
 £^ Whither ? 
 
 Har. To thy bliss ! 
 
 E. Thy ruin ! 
 
 Har. No ! Who taught you joy was evil, 
 
 Sad misery the only path to heaven? 
 Trust me, it is more holy to love well, 
 Than in a cloister dream of holiness. 
 
 E. What shall I do ? He taught me ; strung me up 
 To this high pitch, and now himself unstrung 
 He quarrels with the music he has made, 
 And breaks the strings of his own instrument. 
 
 G. Brother ! 
 
 Har. Not now ! 
 
 Q Go then ! and take thy will ! 
 
 Let the king say, my people weep and mourn, 
 I will be merry-hearted. 
 
 E. Gurth ! your words 
 
 Sting him to madness. 
 
 Q, Not a heart in England,
 
 HAROLD. 6^ 
 
 But leapt more joyful hearing Harold king ! 
 
 No eye in Europe but doth watch to learn 
 
 How Harold sways his sceptre ! What ? Thus changed ! 
 
 False to thyself! 
 
 E. Forget me ! 
 
 Har. And to marry 
 
 Another ! Aldyth ! 
 
 A. For the sake of England. 
 
 E. Forget me ! 
 
 A. No, forget not ! Let her be 
 
 Thy saint, thy star, in love, in memory shrined, 
 A little lower than the angels, one 
 Who, more than woman, bids thee, more than man, 
 Live not for her, but all men. 
 
 G. Brother, see, 
 
 What choice is thine ! Here fame, here honour 
 
 calls ; 
 Here England with an outstretched finger stands 
 Pointing thee upward. There the flowery path 
 Slopes downward, wanton : with it infamy, 
 Shame, and for wedding-march a nation's tears, 
 Ruin thine offspring, death thy progeny : 
 Choose ! {A short pause, then) 
 
 E. He has chosen. 
 
 Har. Edith ! (They embrace.) 
 
 G. Brother, come ! 
 
 Har. Come life's long wane, and sad eclipse of all, 
 Dead hope, dead love, dead joy, dead everything ! 
 
 {A trumpet heard.) 
 
 E. Dead ! 'Tis not death, but new nativity. 
 Listen ! It calls. 
 Har. Who calls? 
 
 F
 
 66 HAROLD. 
 
 E. The trumpet's tongue, 
 
 Never indifferent to a soldier's ear. 
 
 G. Come ! 
 
 Har. As a ghost, with thin and frozen blood 1 
 
 E. Come as a sunburst on a sleeping world ! 
 
 G. Come as a monarch with his armour on ! 
 Let us be going ! 
 
 Har. Whither ? 
 
 G. Where thy people 
 
 Call for thy rallying presence. Norman wile 
 Works in our camp. 
 
 Har. I will expel it forth 
 
 With English truth. 
 
 G. Our merchants sigh for peace. 
 
 Har. Win it through war then, gallant Englishmen. 
 
 G. England alone is lost and leaderless. 
 
 Har. follow, who love me ! I will lead them on. 
 
 E. See, let me brace thy baldrick tighter up ! 
 
 Har. Nay, now it needs not, I am braced up, all. 
 Within this girdle there is strength enough 
 To overflow, and in a thousand hearts 
 Beget the might, the thews of Hercules. 
 Ah, Edith, had we lived in happier times ! 
 
 E. We had been happy. 
 
 Har. Wherefore do we live ? 
 
 E. To help each other to self-sacrifice. 
 And teach the world through sorrow bravely borne. 
 
 {Drum heard without : Soldiers enter slowly.) 
 
 Har. Hark ! 
 
 E. 'Tis the war-drum, glorious heart of war ! 
 Each throb a nation's life, a hero's fame.
 
 HAROLD. 67 
 
 Forth to thy work ! Come Norman or come Dane, 
 All will go well now Harold lives again. 
 
 Har. Farewell ! 
 
 G. Come, brother ! 
 
 Har. Life will have its way, 
 
 Though wear}' hearts be breaking every day. 
 
 {Soldiers gather round, and enclose Harold, who goes out 
 with them. Edith falls upon her knees.) 
 
 E. Gone ! He is gone ! Stay, Harold ! But one word 
 Of parting ! Oh, I have saved him, but at cost 
 Of my own life : a string snapped in my heart 
 Then, as he turned. O lips that were too harsh, 
 O words that should have tempered, not enraged, 
 The festering wound ! I should have been more gentle. 
 Have soothed, not vexed him. Will he not come again ? 
 Will he not let me word it o'er afresh 
 In language different ? Once is too little ; 
 Once ! Should I tell it o'er a thousand times, 
 Never the same, and with a thousand tongues, 
 Something were left untold. He was so tender, 
 He would not let a ray of the sun strike on me : 
 And now, O night, night, night ! Be not far from me. 
 My God, my Father ! Trouble is nigh at hand ; 
 Darkness, thick darkness, falls on every side, 
 And there is none to help me. Gone ! Gone ! Gone ! 
 
 ^Curtain falls. End of Second Act.) 
 
 F 2
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. 
 {In the royal palace : enter the Queen and attendant.') 
 
 Qii. Would it were evening. 
 
 Cecile. Evening ? 
 
 Q. Or to-morrow, 
 
 Or the day after, or, October past, 
 Would it were winter. 
 
 C. Winter is so cold. 
 
 Q. Cold, girl ! 'Tis nothing to the cold of men. 
 What have you there ? 
 
 C. That little lock of hair — 
 
 Q. By Edith sent him, as her best possession ! 
 
 C. An innocent offering ! 
 
 Q. It shall cost him dear. 
 
 Ah, me ! Can men who love not, learn to love ? 
 
 C, Aye, Madam, if we be but kind and fair. 
 
 O. Reach me that mirror! Fair? I am fair enough. 
 But who would know me kind as well as fair. 
 Must show me kindness first. 'Tis the weak slave 
 Tempts on the tyrant ; and poor wives too tender 
 Make lukewarm lords grow cold. 
 
 C. Dare I to ask 
 
 Has he writ to you since he went away? 
 
 0. Too little to remember, or forget !
 
 HAROLD. 69 
 
 C. That is a pity. 
 
 Q. What is a pity ? 
 
 C. That 
 
 He writes so little. 
 
 Q. All have had his ear 
 
 Save I. 
 
 C His queen ! Is that to share a throne ? 
 
 Q. And oft as I approach him with request 
 Of gentler import, he or answers not, 
 Or sighs, or frets, or murmurs of his wars : 
 E'en in his sleep he mutters peace, and England. 
 I could bear better hate than negligence. 
 
 C. Were it not well he felt your power a little? 
 
 Q. My power ? I would but bend, to bring him low. 
 As gardeners use to do some haughty bough, 
 With poised stones weighing its wildness down, 
 Till he grow gentle. Tell me, your great Duke, 
 Is he so great? 
 
 C. None greater in the world ! 
 
 Q. Greater than Harold ? 
 
 C. None, I mean, save him. 
 
 Q. And of his army, tell me ! 
 
 C. I have seen it 
 
 At Harfleur, leagues on leagues of armed men 
 Moving like dancers, every step in tune, 
 Slower or fast, according to the measure, 
 Till horrid war grew lovely with the grace 
 Of ordered execution. 
 
 Q. Ah, I fear. 
 
 (^/z/fr Aylmer.) 
 Ayl. Fear ? What is this ? The Lady Aldyth sighing ? 
 Has aught befallen?
 
 / 
 
 O HAROLD. 
 
 O. I am sick of life. 
 
 Ayl. Heartsick ! 
 
 Q. "Tis question which shall longer last 
 
 I, or m}' passion. It were well, inethinks, 
 To die, then haunt him after. 
 
 Ayl. Ah, what's here? 
 
 Some freak of fancj' ! 
 
 Q. 'Tis no fancy, Father, 
 
 I know what is, and is not ; I have fancied 
 A grief, like childhood's ogres, all the while 
 Knowing 'twas nothing. That was phantasy. 
 
 Ayl. And now this grief? 
 
 Q. Not grief, but agony ! 
 
 Ayl. What agony ? 
 
 p. O dull, these men in cowls ! 
 
 Whose eyes have flown into the bats and moles, 
 Apt to read missals, but in passion's page 
 Blind as Teiresias ! 
 
 Ayl. 'Tis his absence grieves you. 
 
 Q. Worse ! 'Tis his presence, like a constant goad 
 Driving me mad : 3'ou know not jealousy. 
 
 Ayl. The king, your husband ? 
 
 O. And his minion, Edith ! 
 
 Ayl. That lock of hair ? 
 
 Q. Would it might strangle her ! 
 
 Ayl. Ah, that was wrong. Yet suffer one more 
 question ! 
 You sent those letters that we spoke about 
 To your two brothers ? 
 
 Q. Yes, the}' do not come. 
 
 Ayl. Edwin and Morcar absent ! Excellent ! {Aside.) 
 Nay, that is well. We are commanded. Lady,
 
 HAROLD. 7T 
 
 Not to waste pearls, which hidden ocean-deep, 
 
 (As thrifty nature buries what she loves) 
 
 Men risk their lives for : scattered numberless, 
 
 With all sea waste, sea wonders, on the shore, 
 
 What eye would mark their beauty ? So it fares 
 
 With sated love : our coarser appetites, 
 
 Or let me say, our weaknesses of nature, 
 
 Need sometime purging ; then, their surfeit over. 
 
 They crave what they have spurned. 
 
 Q. 'Tis true. 
 
 Ayl. And love. 
 
 With summer-heat grown lax and negligent. 
 Needs stern-eyed coldness, like a nipping wind. 
 To make men heed what habit they put on. 
 
 Q. Reason is good, yet am I sick of reason. 
 
 Ayl. Lady, you sicken of your solitude. 
 I would prescribe you — 
 
 Q. Prythee, anything ! 
 
 Bid me go stand in the teeth o' the raging wind 
 Uncloaked, unhooded : bid me on edge of flint 
 Stand bleeding, barefoot ! bid me fast, kneel, pray, 
 Tell beads, give alms, with charitable hand. 
 Wash leprous sores, wherefrom the mother's eye 
 Turns backward loathing ; aught to escape myself. 
 
 Ayl! Nay, lady, I have kindlier work for j'ou. 
 A little journey to Saint Edmund's shrine. 
 Where fifty Aves, fifty Paters, breathed 
 With unction, shall restore your happier mind. 
 
 0. I go. Worse cannot be. No change is evil 
 From these sad halls. Come, Cecile ! Ah, my beads ! 
 You have them ? 
 
 C. Cartes, Madam !
 
 72 HAROLD. 
 
 Ayl. Allons done ! 
 
 {To Ce'cile) Her jealousy, remember, not her fears! 
 You understand. Be sage ! [Exit Queen with Ce'cile. 
 
 They are too late : 
 And the great Duke, when was he not in time? 
 {Enter a Courier, in long cloak, disguised.) 
 
 Ayl. Ah, Fran9ois, the bienvenu, what news from 
 Normandy? 
 
 Fr. The Duke has sailed. By now he should be in 
 England. 
 
 Ayl. Holy Mary ! Best of men ! best of messengers ! 
 How came it ? 
 
 Fr. He was at St. Valery when I left ; the Duke, his 
 lords, his knights, a mighty army with them, the world 
 cannot equal it. Sacre ! You should have seen them 
 there, drawn up on the shore, waiting for the signal. 
 Then, tantara, tantara ! The trumpet sounds! One, 
 two, three ! They are off. A rush, a race ! The devil 
 take the hindmost ! All on board in ten minutes ! Not 
 a scuUion, not a drummer-boy left behind ! Then a hush, 
 you could hear your heart beat. Then, tantara again ! 
 One, two, three ! Off they go, the last first, everyone in 
 his order ! And in ten minutes back they are in their 
 old places; you could think they had never left them. 
 And there they were, all ready, only waiting for a 
 breeze. 
 
 Ayl. And then ? The Duke ? 
 
 Fr. Called to me, and said, * Francois ! '—he knows 
 me— 'see there is wind enough for a small shallop, 
 and the sea is calm. Take boat and hence to London. 
 Bid our friends be ready : I will dine with them at 
 Christmas.'
 
 HAROLD. 73 
 
 Ayl Well! 
 
 Fr. Well, I set sail. Not a ship of Harold's was on 
 the water : the wind freshened from the south : the 
 Duke will have sailed ere this, and then — 
 
 Ayl. Harold will be too late. And then, for Saxon 
 write Norman over everything in England. What say 
 you? 
 
 Fr. That I am hungry as a wolf. 
 
 Ayl. A la bonne heure ! Come, Frangois, thou shalt 
 dine with me in the Chepe, and see these men careless 
 and confident as ever. Allons ! {Exeunt. 
 
 Scene H. 
 
 (English Coast, near Pevensey : Norman ships tn harbour. 
 Enter Fool.) 
 
 Fool. Ho ! ho ! ho ! The fool first ! Let the fool 
 take possession of England ! O brother fools ! Oh 
 welcome, land of fools ! No goose has cackled, and no 
 cat has mewed. And is this war .? this letting of blood ? 
 and clashing of arms ? Nay, by my sooth, 'tis a merry- 
 making, a right beautiful and brotherly merry-making : 
 and to see our dear friends, the English, we are come. 
 Now to sa}^ God be with you ! Now to kiss them on 
 either cheek ! and hobnob over a flagon of ale ! 'Tis 
 a good drink, ale, though wine is better for the wit. 
 Ho ! ho ! ho ! I could think I was a school-boy playing 
 truant. Who will pick black-berries ? Who will play 
 marbles ? Who will rob a hen-roost ? Sacre ! How 
 they will laugh in Normandy ! Cock-a doodle doo ! The 
 jest of it ! The frolic of it ! But see, 'tis Fitzosborne.
 
 74 HAROLD. 
 
 {Enter Fitzosborne, De Graville, and knights.^ 
 
 Welcome, Sirs ! Welcome ! Make yourselves at home. 
 This is the fool's land. I bid you all welcome, 
 
 Fitz. How fare ye, friends ? 
 
 De G. As eagles lately caged 
 
 Freed on the mountains. 
 
 Fitz. All the world your own ! 
 
 Yet, are they mad, these dread and doughty English ? 
 I thought that they would stand upon the beach, 
 As their forefathers did in Caesar's time, 
 And give us battle ere we reached their shore. 
 But all is hushed, peaceful and slumbering still: 
 Barely, while thousand warships throng the strand. 
 Yon frightened cliff gave forth one seabird's scream. 
 That now is slumbering, murmuring in its caves ; 
 The very waves seem keeping holiday, 
 And round our prows in charmed silence stand, 
 To see the imperial victor enter in. 
 So, Bishop, you did well to urge us on ! 
 
 (Enter Ot>o.) 
 
 Odo. A miracle ! a most clear miracle ! 
 Said I not well, the saints are on our side? 
 Welcome to England, Norman conquerors! 
 Wiiere is the Duke? 
 
 Fitz. Below us, on the beach. 
 
 Now on the land, now in the water, like 
 A sea-god 1 With a voice amid the din 
 Clear as a trumpet. Hark ! 
 
 Duke. What ! laggards ! stay 
 Til! England wake? Blow trumpets, sound a charge!
 
 HAROLD. 75 
 
 Horsemen and foot, quick, knights and archers all, 
 Into the waves! Fear nothing save my ire! 
 
 A Voice. Who stays to guard the ships? 
 
 Diike. The deep, deep, sea ! 
 
 Voice. Why, Sire ? This cuts us off from all the 
 w^orld. 
 
 Ditke. Because I will: your reason is, I will. 
 Out with them to the deep, and scuttle them ! 
 
 (Trumpets sound.) 
 
 Odo. He threatens, but with gladness in his tone, 
 Like some bright herald of a jubilee. 
 On, warriors of the Lord ! on, Normandy ! 
 I go to aid him. {Exit. 
 
 Fits. And we too. You, Sir, {to an officer) 
 
 Go search the country far as Pevensey ! 
 
 Off. We shall need stores. 
 
 Fits. You have a storehouse ready. 
 
 England is a rich sponge, which being squeezed 
 Will furnish all, food, forage, provender. 
 
 Off'. If they resist ? 
 
 Fitz. Then make a solitude ! 
 
 Hang the ringleaders ! Fire the villages ! 
 Teach them their masters! Lessons writ in blood 
 Are easiest read. And yet remember also, 
 The Duke dislikes all violence. 
 
 Fool. Save, his own. 
 
 To kill a thousand, not a single man ; 
 Blood in the gross, not driblets ! 
 
 Fits. Have a care ! 
 
 Peace, fool ! And thou, de Graville, send out 
 
 scouts ; 
 Nay, go thyself to explore the enemy.
 
 7(5 HAROLD. 
 
 They will not let us on to London march 
 Without one skirmish ? 
 
 De G. Nay, I know them well, 
 
 Like raw recruited soldiers, still unknown 
 War's swift surprises, careless, confident ; 
 Brave, but unready ! They'll be here anon. 
 
 Fitz. Yet see if there be not some treachery ! 
 Yon Harold is adept in arts of war : 
 And haply this may prove some stratagem. 
 Which may the more confound us, off our guard : 
 Quick ! Yet be wary ! And, no violence ! 
 
 Fool. And if thou meet a goose upon the way, De 
 Graville, persuade him to come with thee. But no 
 violence ! the Duke will have no violence ! I would fain 
 know the savour of these geese of England. 
 
 \Exit De Graville. 
 
 Fitz. What say you now, Bertie ? Was it a fool's 
 errand, this coming to England ? 
 
 Fool. Yes, Fitzosborne, a very fool's errand ; but these 
 English be greater fools than we. 
 
 Fitz. And what do you wish for now, Bertie ? 
 
 Fool. An earldom at the least, friend, with a fat manor, 
 and a fairhaired Saxan for my bride. I have a flight of 
 heiresses in my eye. 
 
 Fitz. Good ! but you must win her first. There is 
 much fighting to be done ! Where are your cap and 
 bells ? 
 
 Fool. Gone to the bottom ! They were left on board ! 
 Where a whole people are fools, your one fool lacks dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 Fitz. Fools indeed, beyond all extravagance of belief! 
 But now, go and get thy supper !
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 11 
 
 Fool. Supper? Should I, like Nebuchadnezzar, eat 
 grass ? Oh for a fat capon, and a stoup o' wine ! 
 
 Fits. Away ! [Exit. 
 
 Fool. Nay, I am well here. I will certainly marry 
 here in England. My beef-eating father-in-law shall feed 
 swine ; my mother-in-law spin hose ; my lady-wife make 
 puddings for me. They be rare pudding-makers, these 
 women of England. And I will teach her manners. 
 Your islander is ever a babe in manners. To hold herself 
 thus! But fighting? That great numskull, Fitzosborne, 
 spoke of fighting for her. I like not fighting. Of what 
 use to win half a kingdom in the wars, and leave half 
 your limbs upon the field of battle. Can a leg eat, a head 
 marry ? Bah ! Or with a spear in your midriff, like a 
 skewer in a brisket of beef ! Out upon it! Ah, your 
 man of words is your real man. When words shall 
 replace blows, then shall your man-at-arms be fool, and 
 your fool king. Heigho ! I would I had my supper ! 
 But, hillo ! {Enter soldier with pitcher.) Whither ? 
 
 Soldier. To fetch water. 
 
 Fool. Water ! Rock of Moses ! And why water ? 
 
 Soldier. To drink, fool ! 
 
 Fool. Drink water ! Is it come to this ? Oh war ! 
 Alas for Normandy ! 
 
 (Enter Duke William and Odo, attended.^ 
 
 Duke. What man is he that sighs for Normandy ? 
 You, Bertie ! You ! 
 
 Fool. Oh ! {Aside) He has the knit in his brow. It 
 were well not to vex him. I did but say. Sire, that a 
 King's jester should drink wine. 
 
 Duke. Splendour of God, my knights, and nobles all,
 
 78 HAROLD. 
 
 Have we not here a richer, fairer, realm, 
 
 Than any we have left in Normandy? 
 
 Said I not well, j'on channel was a ditch, 
 
 England a doughty, but unguarded, fortress, 
 
 Whose people, like their surly native dogs, 
 
 Fight, singly, bravely : but their hearts too fierce, 
 
 Too full of choler, rude, ungovernable, 
 
 To know obedience ? O Sirs, note it well ! 
 
 Man's glory is obedience : sans obedience, 
 
 Which at the sounding of some petty pipe 
 
 Bids squadrons charge, their thunder shake the ground 
 
 Fire-breathing, like storm-winged elements ; 
 
 Then of a sudden stop, as turned to stone, 
 
 Rider and steed like breathing monuments ; 
 
 Numbers but crowd the shambles for our spears. 
 
 Ah, Lanfranc, see, the Church has a new realm ! 
 
 But what is this ? 
 
 Lanf. A banner, Sire, from Rome, 
 
 With which do thou, a second Caesar, ride, 
 Wider than Roman eagles ever flew, 
 O'er necks of enemies. Go ! Be heaven thy helper ! 
 
 Duke (unjiirlmg it). This only lacked. And lo ! upon 
 yon mound, 
 Fronting the wild sea-breezes, shall arise 
 A massive shrine, like Zion, valour-won, 
 Then temple-crowned, to-morrow's lasting pile, 
 Our battle's mark, our triumph's monument. 
 See too these relics ! On these Harold swore 
 To make me king. With these I will confront him. 
 What is this place ? 
 
 Fitzosborne. Senlac, or Sanglac, Sire. 
 
 Duke. Blood-lake ! What prophet anciently inspired
 
 HAROLD. 79 
 
 Baptized it thus ? We will confirm it soon. 
 But hark ! who comes ? 
 
 {A scout rushes in followed by De Gniviile.) 
 
 Scout. The English ! The English ! 
 {Sensation. Voices, ' Where are they ? Are they near? ') 
 
 Scout. Advancing with all speed against us, Earl 
 Harold at their head with his brothers ; and an arm}' at 
 his back of men as stout and strong as any in Christen- 
 dom. 
 
 Duke. They come to their death. 
 
 Fitzosborne. Shall we not set our army in the field, 
 And make all ready .-^ 
 
 Duke. Nay. The sun is low : 
 
 They will entrench. 
 
 Lanf. Then were it not well-counselled 
 
 To send, and twit the usurper with his oath ? 
 His then the sin of bloodshed ! 
 
 Duke. Excellent ! 
 
 See to it, Lanfranc ! And yet one thing more. 
 Oft have I longed to measure swords with Harold. 
 Which of my knights will take my challenge-glove, 
 And dare him to the field ? De Graville ! 
 
 De G. Sire ! 
 
 Duke. Take this — 
 
 De G. Nay, Sire ! 
 
 Duke. What .? 
 
 De G. While he lived for honour, 
 
 Honour I held it but to speak with him ; 
 But with a perjured knight, a renegade, 
 Ask it not, Sire ! 
 
 Duke. I did not ask it, sirrah ; 
 
 'Twas my commandment. Peste ! You are too bold,
 
 8o HA R OLD. 
 
 Proud, and punctilious as a woman. What ? 
 
 I have your knee, your homage, your obeisance, 
 
 But— 
 
 De G. Not my honour. Sire ; that is my own. 
 
 Duke. Proud spirit, peace ! I will not hurt thine 
 honour. 
 Tush, man, so shape and word it, as thou wilt ! 
 Nay, must I vainly ask my trustiest knight 
 This slight poor service ? 
 
 De G. Sire, I do thine asking. {Goes slowly.) 
 
 Duke. What dares he not, who dares me ? Tremble, 
 Harold ! 
 Hope not for victory over knights like mine ! 
 Ha, Hugh, approach ! What arrows have your men ? 
 
 Hugh. Each sixty. Sire ! 
 
 Duke. And sixty more, remember. 
 
 Held in reserve ! And, one more word, shoot high ! 
 Then, when they look for mercy up to heaven, 
 Answer in arrow- flights ! The needed stores — 
 Are they provided ? Good ! Let war feed war ! 
 Yet one thing more ! Do ye remember, all, 
 My turning movement, fleeing to draw on 
 Further pursuit ? 
 
 Fits. As at Val-ez-dunes, Sire ? 
 
 Duke. Aye, but the time ! Mark ! All depends on 
 time. 
 Moments in peace are weak and valueless. 
 But moments are the hands of fate in war : 
 Better in peace waste centuries than in war 
 One priceless instant ! Turn too soon, they gain 
 Their stronghold's refuge: turn too late, they catch 
 you
 
 HAROLD. 81 
 
 In flagrant disarrangement. So, you take me ? 
 Now, what remains ? 
 
 Odo. 'Tis Saint Callixtus eve : 
 
 Shall we not ask his blessing ere we sleep ? 
 
 Duke. Good Saint Callixtus ! 'Tis my birthday also. 
 When I was born the stars were fortunate, 
 And their conjunction promised me a crown. 
 See to it, Odo ! 
 
 Odo {going). What is the word to-morrow? 
 
 Duke [after a pause). God is our aid. 
 
 Odo. Yon sun goes fairly down. 
 
 To-morrow it will see a conquered land. 
 
 Duke. Will, brother ? — does ! 'Twas conquerd while 
 they slept : 
 'Twas conquer'd when they left the unguarded waves, 
 And threw away like thriftless prodigals 
 Their one sole treasure. Nature's muniment. 
 Those sea walls, built of old by Titan hands, 
 And moated round with the inviolate sea. 
 The unfathom'd ocean. Lo ! I set my foot 
 On England's pride ; nor ever England's strength. 
 Awaked too late, like Samson self-betrayed. 
 Shall make it budge. Their day of grace is over, 
 Our voyage is past, our step is on the shore : 
 Who lands in England is its conqueror.
 
 H2 HAROLD. 
 
 Scene III. 
 
 {A country village, near Hastings : old wives and girls spinning at 
 their doors : other gii Is bringing apples from the orchard, young 
 men helping thcni : children playing ivith the apples : boys playing 
 single-stick : wounded soldier on crutcli, watching them : all ex- 
 pecting the king. ) 
 
 Scout {rushing in). They're coming : they're coming. 
 The king, and his brothers, and the whole army. Close 
 by ! There ! 
 
 Farmer {bustling out of house). Mab, stop your spin- 
 ning : wife, put by your wheel : 
 Girls, let those apples hang upon the tree : 
 Boys of all sorts. Hob, Will, and Harry, come, 
 Quick ! leave your games. The king is coming b}'^ : 
 I say the king, our Harold, with his men, 
 My son among them. Ha! They'll be athirst ; 
 Fighting and marching make a soldier dry ; 
 When are they not dry? Throats like furnaces! 
 Lips like a limekiln ! Go, fetch a hogshead ! Nay, 
 One, said I ? — two ; my cellar's oldest store. 
 Ale, cyder, both ! Oh, honour on the da}^. 
 That I should live to see his blessed face. 
 And he should this way come to guard our shores ! 
 God save king Harold ! God defend the king ! 
 
 {Enter Harold and Gurth, attended, ivith soldiers.) 
 
 Har. Thanks for your greeting friends and country- 
 men ! 
 What ye would do for me and for my cause, 
 I know full well : and for my own true love. 
 Not to you only, but all Englishmen, 
 I would my heart lay open in my hand
 
 HA R OLD. 83 
 
 That all might read it. For indeed I hold 
 
 A people's love far dearer than a throne ; 
 
 And to be blessed in poor men's cottages, 
 
 Remembered o'er the bread they toiling eat, 
 
 Where bit by bit the store is gathered in, 
 
 A grace exceeding far the wealth of kings ; 
 
 Not to be paid with pittance of poor gold, 
 
 Or meted dole, or scanted provender ; 
 
 But to be answered like the gifts of heaven 
 
 With life-long reverent service. Therefore now, 
 
 Footsore, and weary many a fainting league, 
 
 The skies our roof, the stony earth our pillow. 
 
 Often in hunger, often, while we slept, 
 
 White-sheeted mists our ov\y coverlet. 
 
 Cold canopy against the freezing stars. 
 
 We haste to drive the Norman from your shores. 
 
 Then welcome peace, when banished hateful war ! 
 
 Welcome the farmer resting 'mid his sheaves, 
 
 The busy housewife singing at her wheel ! 
 
 Welcome the youths' and maidens' merry glee, 
 
 Pressing for winter's mirth the orchard's store! 
 
 And save in mimic sport be war unknown, 
 
 A pastime gracing bloodless holidays ! 
 
 Till then, till I can reign a king at peace, 
 
 I'll wear a soldier's armour. Give me now 
 
 Yon cup ! I drink it, health to England's friends. 
 
 Death and confusion to her enemies ! 
 
 [Triumphant music, during which villagers approach with shouts, 
 'Long live King Harold!' Harold speaks kindly to them, re- 
 minding the soldier, 'You fought with me against the Welsh. 
 When that leg is well, come and see me at Westminster.' To 
 a boy, who asks, ' Was it this axe killed the giant Hardrada ? ' 
 
 G 2
 
 84 HAROLD. 
 
 he says, 'Ave, boy! when you are a man, so do you fight all 
 England's enemies.' Fanner heard, saying, ' Drink this I 
 That'll put the heart into you. That'll give an edge to your 
 axes.' Shouts of ' Drink-hsel I ' Girls bring wreaths of Jloivers, 
 when enter a villager, ciyiiig, ' The Normans ! the Normans ! 
 over yon hill I they are cornel' Great confusion, with cries of 
 'Save us 1 Save us ! ') 
 
 Har. Peace with these fears ! Am I not with you 
 still ? 
 Are there not here twice twenty thousand men, 
 Who crushed the Dane, and vanquished Hardrada.' 
 And each of them will give his life twice over 
 Ere one of yours shall perish. Ha! who comes? 
 
 {Enter Haco, ivho, seeing the crowd, hangs back.) 
 
 Har. Haco, what news ? 
 
 Hnc. News for your ear alone ! 
 
 Har. Nay, let all hear ! Hide they, who dare not 
 show ! 
 The first to suffer should be first to know. 
 
 Hac. The Normans are here. 
 
 Har. Here ! They have landed ? 
 
 Hac. They are landing now. 
 
 Har. Are they near? 
 
 Hac. Hear them ! {A distant shout is heard.) 
 
 Har. Haste then to the front ! 
 
 Seize yonder hill : ye see how high it stands. 
 Thence, as the rocks beat back the Ocean's surge, 
 So we the Norman. Say, this side is England ; 
 Beyond, that stolen strip of English ground, 
 That parted limb, that captive exiled brother, 
 Yearning to join its bleeding trunk again. 
 Shall yet be ours ; if not in life, in death
 
 HAROLD. %• 
 
 We'll win it for our graves. Haste then ! And you, 
 You, whom we came to succour, help to save ! 
 Go, youth, dig trenches ! Age, behind them weave 
 Thick-woven breastworks ! Women, who have strength, 
 Be men and help ! Who cannot work, say prayers ! 
 All shall bear part. By heaven, my bosom burns 
 That Norman foot should tread on English ground 
 But for one hour, and we, as men in dreams, 
 Should natheless sleep, and nightbound suffer still 
 Our honour unavenged. No more of words ! 
 I hold you back, who are on fire to go : 
 Quick, and reconquer England from the foe ! 
 
 (Exeunt soldiers and villagers, sJioitting : 'A Harold ! 
 A Harold!') 
 Har. Is there no place where we can talk awhile ? 
 Gurth, Haco, stay ! 
 
 G. There is a cottage here, 
 
 And this good man will give us shelter. 
 
 Farmer. Aye, 
 
 And welcome, Sirs ! Come this way ! Welcome, Sirs ! 
 (Exeunt, while soldiers are departing, and soon again 
 re-enter, with farmer, ivho pitts chairs, &^c. And 
 then says, 
 
 Scene IV. 
 {Interior of Cottage.) 
 
 Farmer. And is there anything I can do for your 
 Majesty ? My best, Sirs, and you shall have it ! 
 
 Har. Nothing, thank you, my good friend, we must be 
 alone.
 
 86 HAROLD. 
 
 Farmer. Aye, of course! of course ! His good friend ! 
 The people's King ! Good e'en to you, gentlemen ! 
 Good e'en ! {Exit. 
 
 Har. Now for the worst ! Speak, Haco ! They are 
 come? 
 
 Hac. With the whole might and power of Normandy. 
 
 Har. Where was our fleet ? 
 
 Hac. A phantom chasing phantoms ; 
 
 Or, battered hulls, in harbour tempest-bound. 
 
 Har. Their order was as bulldogs of the deep 
 To grip them fast. They should have perished rather, 
 Sunk in the wild and stormy elements, 
 Than quit their hold. 
 
 G. The very winds fight for him. 
 
 Hac. Fair and foul weather, Norman, Dane, at once ! 
 Who singly can contend such mighty odds ? 
 
 Har. Our Alfred won with greater odds than these. 
 
 Hac. You jest. 
 
 Har. Not, if our aids expected come. 
 
 Hac. Our aids .'' From heaven ? 
 
 Har. More near, from Mercia, Ha ! 
 
 Hast thou forgot my kinsmen, good at need, 
 Edwin and Morcar ? But whom have we here ? 
 
 {Enter Messenger, ivith letters. ' From the noble thanes Edwin and 
 
 Morcar, Sire ! ') 
 
 Har. See ! {handing it). 
 Hac. Shall I read? 
 
 Har. Read on ! 
 
 Hac. 'They are grieved : it pains them to be absent at 
 such a time : but the harvest is late : their men have not
 
 HAROLD. 87 
 
 gathered in the corn : they will be here anon.' The 
 traitors ! 
 
 Har. Anon ! And will time, like a courtier's tongue. 
 Bide at their bidding ? Time 's a flying steed, 
 That lets the ready rider vault on his back, 
 The lingerer 's left lamenting. Oh ! these men, 
 When one arm lacking, like a palsied limb. 
 May wither up our whole great enterprise. 
 Now, to send words ! My worthy kinsmen ! Mark, 
 Haco, my kinsmen ! 
 
 Hac. Build on woman's faith, 
 
 Build on a quicksand ! 
 
 Har. Should I die to-morrow. 
 
 See, if there be not somewhere on my heart 
 Deep written, Mercia ! But why stand'st thou there, 
 White as Lot's wife, ill-omened messenger t 
 
 Mess. From the Bishop of Winchester, Sire ! 
 
 Har. ' He would have me solemnly absolved by Holy 
 Church.' 
 Another, and another, and another ! 
 Excuses hang like fevers in the air. 
 And cowards catch them. What? And yet another? 
 
 (Enter another Messenger. ) 
 
 Mess. 2. From the Archbishop of York, Sire. 
 
 Har. Ha ! [growing black as thunder.) What ? Aylmer 
 closeted with the Queen ? Aylmer ? A messenger sent 
 off in consequence to her brothers ? Treachery ! 
 Haco, thou'st helped me to a wife indeed. 
 
 Hac. What news ? 
 
 Har. She undermines me on my throne; 
 
 Runs cross and counter to my every aim ;
 
 88 HAROLD. 
 
 Plots 'gainst my life, leagues with my enemies ; 
 Using her knowledge with a dangerous skill 
 To strike me in a part most vulnerable. 
 Was it for this I threw away a heart 
 Richer than pearls ? 
 
 Hac. What ? Is it possible ? 
 
 G. The Queen ? 
 
 Har. Who does not know her, England's Queen, 
 
 My wife, the mother of her people, she 
 The eye at home, as I the hand abroad. 
 Watching and fighting England's enemies ? 
 Yet she, this Queen, now when invasion armed 
 Stands on our shores, demanding all men's service, 
 Sudden, at once, or else too late for ever. 
 Leagued with her kin, a very Dalilah, 
 Steals all my strength awaj^ 
 
 Hac. Have you the proof? 
 
 Har. See, read ! 
 
 Hac. With Aylmer ? Treachery ! 
 
 Har. Had it been 
 
 My only suffering, I had borne it ; nay. 
 Like the bold merchant hid my loss, and smiled, 
 Sailing fresh argosies : but the good of all, 
 This common bark which barely now withstands 
 The gathering blast, tossed like a trembling leaf 
 On the wild airs — now on the foamy crest, 
 Now in the trough— add but a featherweight, 
 It sinks to rise no more. 
 
 Hac. Perfidious woman ! 
 
 G. I would have given my life to aid thy cause. 
 And I have given thee — 
 
 Har. Stay ! no word of her,
 
 HA R LD. 89 
 
 She had a sceptre from me, but no love ; 
 
 I could not give it. Give me the letter ! There ! 
 
 'Tis gone. {Tears it.} O friends, come nearer! Let me 
 
 feel 
 Some truth about me ! How this solid earth 
 Reels, when we trust not ! World, thou art too hard, 
 Crooked ways beat plain. O life, strange mystery ! 
 We are the sport of chance ; one moment makes. 
 Another mars us : and our glory's stream. 
 That seemed fair-bound to the everlasting floods, 
 A golden splendour broadening to the sun. 
 Ends in mere ooze : then what we should have been, 
 Our name, imperishable writ in brass. 
 Our place, our record in life's history. 
 Our landmark on the level flats of time, 
 Broken halfway, like some tall poplar, stands 
 A headless trunk, storm-blasted. Come ! 
 
 Q, Forgive me ! 
 
 Har. Nay, 'tis I need forgiveness. What .' Give in, 
 Ere a blow struck ? Reach me your hands ! We 'II 
 
 win 
 A battle yet. Brothers in love and arms. 
 Whose swords, ne'er drawn save in a righteous cause, 
 Were never sheathed till crowned with victory, 
 There on yon height we may defy the world. 
 Then, if we live to-morrow, swear henceforth 
 Never to scheme again. 
 
 Hac. There is one way— 
 
 Har. Arch-schemer, swear! 
 
 Hac. With reason for our guide - 
 
 Har. There is no guide but truth and honesty. 
 
 G. But hear him, Harold.
 
 90 
 
 HA RO LD. 
 
 Har. He has trod so long 
 
 The zigzag path, he cannot breast upright 
 The straight ascent. 
 
 Hac. Yet zigzag and straight path 
 
 Meet in one summit. 
 
 Har. Speak ! I am stretched out 
 
 As on a rack. Moments to me are years. 
 
 Hac. List then ! Inert to-day, to-morrow wise. 
 Our custom always, England barely wakened 
 Stretches her giant limbs, and dreaming listens 
 The cry to arms. None ever found us ready ; 
 None ever met us with our armour on ; 
 The best half absent, that which meets the fray 
 Scapes by a miracle, and a triumph snatches 
 Ill-merited, unearned. Not so our foe. 
 He of more slight, but nimbler elements. 
 Dreaming of war, springs as he slept full-armed ; 
 No drowsy-eyed, half-wakened interval; 
 And every man is at his place at once, 
 For hazardous swift onset. 
 Har. You would counsel ? — 
 
 Hac. Retreat, delay! Delay's the sluggard's friend. 
 Slow fires need time. Force the reluctant Norman, 
 As o'er a desert which the locust leaves, 
 In our waste track to follow ! Then — 
 
 Har. Half England 
 
 Stripped to a desert, to concentre round me 
 The strength, the riches of the other half! 
 Is that your counsel? 
 
 Hac. Aye ! Upon one cast 
 
 Will you risk all, crown, life, land, England, all? 
 A gambler's throw?
 
 HAROLD. 91 
 
 Har. Had I inherited 
 
 Of ancient right some old ancestral crown, 
 In filial affection of men's souls 
 So rooted firm, that, like to Holy Writ, 
 It dearer grew, the more men questioned it; 
 Or were I general to such a king, 
 I would retreat ; but, being that I am, 
 A soldier, with no title but my sword, 
 I am not free to suffer those attaints 
 Which older power would scoft' at. 
 
 Hac. Is this word 
 
 Thy last? To fight? 
 
 Har. My last ! But yesterday 
 
 1 might have done it ; but now, together locked, 
 Like wrestlers in a crowning last embrace, 
 With sinewy grip urging each other on 
 To death, all passions sleeping but revenge. 
 One must go down, or other. 
 
 Hac. Yet even now 
 
 Think, where our forts, our shelters, safe retirements, 
 Strongholds, where beaten valour may retrieve 
 Lost fields, and dare new issues. 
 
 Har. Haco, here ! 
 
 Here in our breasts with triple armour clad 
 Of fiery resolution. O my friends, 
 Once in our lives we know what men we are ; 
 In common hours we live as common men, 
 Our valour not true valour; and we deem 
 Our father's stature greater than our own, 
 We cannot wear their armour. Oh ! but dare. 
 More strongly dare ! Daring it is makes men ; 
 Daring creates us heroes, demigods :
 
 92 HAROLD. 
 
 For, as one venomed drop of apprehension 
 Is paralyzing as a serpent's tongue, 
 So daring, like a draught of generous wine, 
 Is joy, is inspiration. 
 
 Hac. It remains 
 
 Then here on Hastings field to make our stand. 
 
 Har. To the last man, the last drop in our veins. 
 Many or few, hopeful or desperate. 
 At once, to-morrow. And God defend the right ! 
 
 G. Shame on the cowards absent ! They must have 
 The sword's dread wakening, ere they quit their sleep. 
 
 Hac. Death-bed repentance, all too late to save ! 
 
 G. Ruin alone will rouse them. 
 
 Har. Gurth, enough ! 
 
 Brave men think of what is, not what might be. 
 
 Hac. Grand words ! But 'tis not war. 
 
 Har. War, or no war. 
 
 Let us live grandly first, then, when we die, 
 Our death will be grand also. 
 
 Hac. You are gay. 
 
 Har. I know the worst. 
 
 Hac. Ruin and death. 
 
 Har. The death 
 
 That heroes love ; and once to know it, Haco, 
 Is to know something loftier in ourselves 
 That dares defy it, like the Spartan host 
 Combing their long locks at Thermopjdae, 
 With deathsongs- welcoming slaughter. 
 
 {Enter Officers.) 
 
 Off. Is he here? 
 
 Sire, we must have more hands.
 
 HAROLD. 93 
 
 Har. Say hearts, not hands ! 
 
 Hands follow hearts. Quick then to every thorpe, 
 Whatever man thou see or meet withal, 
 Say, Harold needs him. He will come with thee. 
 How are our men ? 
 
 Off. All hot, and full of mettle. 
 
 Panting for fight. 
 
 Har. Yet keep their fire in bounds ! 
 
 Pent fires burn longest : scattered flame soon fades. 
 How go the breastworks .' 
 
 Off. Strong, and will be stronger. 
 
 Har. Strong only ? They must be impregnable ; 
 Branch into branch inwoven, all to earth, 
 Till giants foiled confess their impotence. 
 
 Off. We will do all— 
 
 Har. Ye must do more than all, 
 
 More perfect make perfection. To succeed 
 Is to find that on which succeeding hangs, 
 And not to rest till it be perfected. 
 Now hence, some hours of busy night to borrow ! 
 Night must be day, sleep wait until to-morrow. 
 
 {Exit, with Officers.) 
 
 Hac. O most pernicious, vile, accursed woman ! 
 
 G. Waste not in cursing breath we need to-morrow ! 
 
 Hac. Folly beats wisdom, as the doubling hare 
 Outdoes the eagle. She has ruined all. 
 
 G. Say, we, our ruin ! 
 
 Hac. 'Twas her work ; our plan 
 
 Was wise enough. 
 
 G. Too wise ! Take notice, Haco, 
 
 There is more wisdom in simplicity
 
 94 fi'A RO LD. 
 
 Than in the cunningest contriving art 
 Of fine-wove statecraft. What ? To sell a brother, 
 Sell him for Mercia ! Were't to do again, 
 Never for all the Mercias in the world, 
 Northumberland to boot. 
 
 Hac. We are Fate's toys, 
 
 Her playthings first, and then her castaways : 
 And yet I would I had them by the throat. 
 Those thanes of Mercia and Northumberland. 
 
 G. Their doom is in the future, now is ours. 
 
 Hac. Doom .' If 'tis doomsday, then that ends up all. 
 
 G. I grieve our act. 
 
 Hac. Folly, to call it ours, 
 
 Who were but voices ! O accursed woman ! 
 Men should not marry who would govern men. 
 
 G. Nor mar the marriage that they cannot mend : 
 We forced him to it. 
 
 Hoc. We were forced withal. 
 
 There sits an envious spirit in these clouds, 
 Dashes our hopes, defeats our victories ; 
 Yet I defy her. Fortune, fury, fiend ; 
 Come doom, or devil, I defy them all. 
 
 G. To rail is nought, 
 
 Hac. Yet railing is a vent. 
 
 Lets out an ocean of unruly thoughts 
 That else would choke us. 
 
 G. Hush! 'tis Harold comes. 
 
 r£/)/«- Harold, ^rt/A'.) 
 
 Har. Now, ye conspirators who shape my life, 
 Who will go with me ? 
 
 G. Whither ?
 
 HAROLD. 95 
 
 Har. To the front. 
 
 I cannot sleep till I have seen the foe. 
 
 G. I will go with thee. 
 
 Hac. I, to watch the work, 
 
 And spur the workers. 
 
 Har. They will need the curb, 
 
 More like, to-morrow. Go then, worthy friend, 
 And if thou hear some smooth-lipped subaltern 
 Instruct his bearded ancient how to stand, 
 To thrust, to foin, to hold his weapon thus, 
 Scouting the antique fashion, for my sake 
 Forget, forgive him ! {Exit Harold with Gurth.) 
 
 Hac. Forgive .' He can forgive : 
 
 Forgetting comes not till we cease to live. {Rushes out.) 
 
 Scene V. 
 
 [Nonnaii Camp. The Duke in front. Knights and soldiers in the 
 background looking after their armour. Armourers hammering, &^c. 
 Enter procession of Monks chanting, with Odo at their head and 
 Lanfranc waving banner: Acolytes in attendance. Soldiers quit 
 their work, and move toward the front.) 
 
 Acolytes. On your knees, when the Holy Rood 
 comes by. 
 Voices : 
 
 Wherever he wander, wherever he roam, 
 
 The Church of the Northman stands near to his home. 
 
 Sancte, sancte, sancte CalHxte, 
 
 Pugna ! pugna ! pugna pro nobis ! 
 
 Our Fathers were Vikings, they ruled o'er the wave, 
 Their spirits still with us, they fight tVom the grave ; 
 Sancte, &c.
 
 96 
 
 HAR OLD. 
 
 >±L 
 
 Jcp=S=qsi=Jv 
 
 ^ 
 
 a N: 
 
 :i^=i: 
 
 — = k Ik -J= i* T* ^^5 »r 
 
 &^-3^ 
 
 I^SZ^'^J- 
 
 ^^^_S 
 
 •» 
 
 ?5=^= 
 
 m 
 
 se 
 
 :^=P= 
 
 =S=s:i=s;=p:i: 
 
 ji * ! i^ 
 
 Sane - 
 
 t^trtri-'zznnifzj 
 
 te, sane - te, sane - te Cal - lix - te, Pug - na ! pug 
 
 i 
 
 :^«; Is d - V^ I '■ <- 
 
 pug - na pro no 
 
 bis! 
 
 f Harold, Gurth, and Kaco cuter, and observe luisecn.) 
 
 Harold. See, see ! 
 
 Gurf/i. What? 
 
 Har. The Duke ! Round his neck ! There ! 
 
 G. Harold ! 
 
 Har. The oath ! 
 
 G. Brother ! 
 
 Har. I will confront him. 
 
 G. Stay ! 
 
 Har. Unhand me ! 
 
 G. Your life, your safety ! 
 
 Har. My vengeance ! 
 
 G. England ! 
 
 Har. Ah ! 
 
 Then onward, brave Normans, to battle, nor fear ! 
 Where the onset is direst the Saints' swords are near. 
 Sancte, &c. 
 
 They pierce like the lightning, they flash thro" the gloom 
 On the perjured usurper they fall like God's doom. 
 Sancte, &c.
 
 HAROLD. 97 
 
 Then onward, Heaven's soldiers, to conquer or die ! 
 If ye win, here homes wait you ; if ye fall, in the sky. 
 Sancte, &c. 
 
 {Procession stops : all fall upon their knees, at a 
 signal : the Host elevated.) 
 Odo. Auctoritate mea et ecclesiae peccatis omnibus 
 vos absolve. 
 
 G. Is this religion ? Do I dream ? {turns and sees 
 Harold still gazing on William fascinated.) Come away, 
 brother ! This is sorcery, enchantment. This man has 
 fascinated, bewitched you. Come ! 
 (Curtain falls. Music still heard; the last verse repeated.) 
 
 Scene VI. 
 
 Heath near Hastings : enter Monk, Edith in nun's dress, and 
 
 Guide.) 
 
 Guide. I go no farther : I've lost my way. 
 
 Monk. Lost thy way ! May the foul fiend take thee ! 
 But see, hast thou no landmarks .? What is that dark 
 thing beside thee, there ? 
 
 G. Ah ! {rapidly tttoving) Holy Mary, preserve me ! 
 What if it be he you spoke of .^ You '11 not leave me ? 
 
 M. Where is thy courage ? Hark ! What is that 
 noise? A murmur as of waves ! Is the sea near.' 
 
 G. It should be, but I'm that puzzled — mass ! I don't 
 know ! 
 
 M. Nay, it is no sea. It grows louder, though the 
 night is calm. 
 
 G. More like, hell's awake. 
 
 M. It is a mighty army ; it is the hum of men ; I know 
 it of old. 
 
 H
 
 98 HAROLD. 
 
 G. An' hark ye, there, that side ! There 's more of 
 'em. Oh ! Would I were safe at home with my Bess, by 
 my chimney-corner ! Mighty Httle difference it makes 
 to us, who 's king in London. It 's all the same down 
 here in Mudcaster. 
 
 Edith. Is it the sea? 
 
 M. Nay, cries, and clashings, and the din of arms ! 
 We are between two mighty hosts. Ah ! what is that ? 
 Some beacon, some watchfire ? 
 
 G. I think, if it please your worship. Master Franklin's 
 hayricks lie that way. 
 
 M. They have fired the villages, and as I am a sinful 
 man, we were rushing straight into the Norman's arms. 
 Quick, sirrah, 'tis no darkness now. Go, see if thou 
 canst find a way. 
 
 G. 'Tis no darkness, no ! But hadn't we better go 
 together, Father ? 
 
 E. Go with him ! I am so wearied, I will wait here. 
 
 M. Lead on ! Are 3'ou afraid? 
 
 G. Nay, I fear nothing as carries flesh and eats food. 
 But things as is all horns an' eyes — 
 
 M. Come on then ! 
 
 G. Aye, them first as knows about 'em. I'll follow. 
 
 M. {stiinibliug.) Apage Satanas ! 
 
 G. Give.it him well ! {Aside) He don't like it, with all 
 his Latin. {Aloud) I'm coming. 
 
 M. Courage, daughter ! We shall be back anon. 
 
 {Exit with Guide.) 
 
 E. Aye, courage ! I must live to see him still. I said 
 the heart was dead ; I would love nothing, and fear 
 nothing, any more. But it has avenged itself It lives a 
 constant and a burning pain. {Sits down and sings.) 
 
 I
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 99 
 
 I know it will not ease the smart ; 
 
 I know it will increase the pain ; 
 'Tis torture to a wounded heart ; 
 
 Yet, oh ! to see him once again. 
 
 Tho' other lips be pressed to his, 
 
 And other arms about him twine, 
 And tho' another reign in bliss 
 
 In that true heart that once was mine ; 
 
 Yet, oh ! I cry it in my grief, 
 
 I cry it blindly in my pain, 
 I know it will not bring relief, 
 
 Yet, oh ! to see him once again. 
 
 {Re-enter Monk.) 
 
 Monk. They caught us. Our guide fought bravely, 
 but was taken prisoner. Me they let go. We are lost. 
 
 E. Hear you ? it is his voice : he is unhappy. 
 
 M. It was only the wind sighing in the branches. 
 
 E. Again ! 
 
 M. It is the distant sound of armourers riveting the 
 armour. 
 
 E. Again ! 
 
 M. Truly there are wild sounds about ; but who or 
 what they are who can tell ? With two such armies near, 
 many a poor soul may have its last agony unseen, un- 
 known. Come, and let us pray for them ! (Music heard : 
 
 O amare, O perire ! 
 
 O ad Deum pervenire !) 
 
 E. It is Harold ! He needs me ! I must go to him ! 
 M. Thou dost not, canst not hear him. 
 E. Not hear him ? I hear nothing else. 
 M. Alas, alas ! She is clean distraught and gone from 
 her mind. 
 
 H 2
 
 lOO HAROLD. 
 
 E. Let us go ! 
 
 M. Whither? 
 
 E. I know not. 
 
 M. We shall be lost in the darkness. 
 
 E. A light from Heaven will guide us. 
 
 M. Liers in wait will assail — 
 
 E. God will protect us. 
 
 M. I am old and weary. 
 
 E. I will hold you up. Come ! {dragging him out.) 
 
 Scene VII. 
 
 {English camp on downs near Hastings. Enter Grumble a}id 
 
 Grub.) 
 
 Grumble. What ho, boy ? 
 
 Gr. Yes, Sir. 
 
 Grum. W^here is the fire that I ordered of thee ? 
 
 Gr. Here, Sir ! 
 
 Grum. Fire ! Plague o' me ! 'Tis no fire, but a smoke. 
 
 Gr. The sticks were damp. Sir. 
 
 Grum. And I have a dry cudgel here, which — 
 Where art going, boy ? 
 
 Gr. To leave you. Sir. 
 
 Grum. And I cannot catch thee for this vile rheum- 
 atism. Nay, thou hast the legs of me, but yet can'st 
 thou not get on without me. Let us be friends ! 
 What have we to eat ? {Grub opens a bag.) Bull-beef 
 again 'i Perdition ! I would as lief eat boot-leather. 
 And my bed, my snug hole, with straw and rushes ! 
 When I was in Wales, I had a boy. Smart, a tailor's son, 
 who knew my measure to a hair, and could fit me as a 
 glove. What none of these ? Now I have thee, devilkin, 
 and, plague o' me, but thou shalt suffer ! {catching him).
 
 HAROLD. loi 
 
 Gr. Nay, Sir, Sir ! There were no holes. See, I will 
 make thee a hole. Lie thou there, and I will pile bushes 
 round thee. 
 
 Gnmi. Make me a hole ? Why, thou wilt make a hole 
 of me, indeed. 
 
 Gr. And no wind shall come near thy shoulder with 
 the dolorous — 
 
 Gntin. Rheumatism. Well, I pardon thee this time. 
 Dolorous is a good word. So, let me down softly ! 
 Eugh ! But there are no rushes. What ? Am I a cow 
 to lie on grass ? 
 
 Gr. I will get rushes. Sir. They grow — somewhere 
 about here. There now {arranging some furze about hint), 
 thou art snug indeed. 
 
 Gruin. Hm ! When I was in Wales, and fought the 
 Welshman — Away, get rushes ! Begone ! zounds ! 
 vanish ! 
 
 Gr. If ever he see me again — 
 
 Gntm. Ah ! I was young then. At twenty you rush 
 to fight, at thirty walk, at forty need other legs to carrj^ 
 you. Eugh ! If that smoke be not in the eyes like bee- 
 stings ! But, I lillo ! {looking over the bushes.) 
 
 {Voices heard : cuter Farmer, Girls, fl^t/ Boys.) 
 
 Farmer. This a-way, lasses, this a-way ! As sure as 
 I 'm a ruined man, they shall sup well this evening, if 
 they never sup again. 
 
 Grunt, {aside). Most worthy man. 
 
 Farmer. What soldier can fight empty ? 
 
 Grum. {aside). Excellent ! 
 
 Farmer. A full belly will ever beat a fasting, except in 
 a rush.
 
 I02 HAROLD. 
 
 Grum. {aside.) Solomon could not say it better. 
 
 Farmer. See to it then ; you, Bess, and you, Joan ! Out 
 with the last loaf and last morsel of meat ! And, Mar- 
 gery, thou hast discretion, be not backward with the ale. 
 Always drink before eating. Water the ground well 
 before you sow seed. And, mark me now, a cup of ale 
 between the mouthfuls is a great smoother of the way of 
 appetite. Everything grows best in a moist ground. 
 
 Grum. {jumping up.) I can bide it no longer. Didst 
 thou say ale ? Margery ! divine Margery ! 
 
 {She shrieks : he seises the ale, and drinks.) 
 
 Farmer. Holloa, there! Who is it? A Norman? 
 Nay, no Norman ever drank ale like that. Why, it's a 
 soldier, and one of the king's body-guard, God bless him ! 
 And hungry too, I '11 warrant him. Eh ? 
 
 Grum. I could eat a goat. 
 
 Farmer. Take care of him, girls ! I '11 be back anon. 
 
 {Exit.) 
 
 Grum. Just a mouthful o' that meat, and then, Margery, 
 one sip of the ale again ! 
 
 Marg. Why, I thought he was a ghost, or a goblin, an' 
 he 's drunk half a gallon o' master's best Martinmas ale, 
 if he 's drunk a thimbleful. 
 
 Grum. I could drink a pailful of it. When I was in 
 Wales, and fought the Welshman — 
 
 Marg, That must have been a long time ago. Are 
 you better now, Sir? 
 
 Grum. Better? I will fight King Charlemagne, or 
 Knight Roland, or all the best of them, that thou, Mar- 
 gery, art the best ale-pourer since Ganymede. Just one 
 cup more, fair Margery ! It spoils by keeping. If there 
 be one thing hard to bear in a wicked world, it is thirst.
 
 HAROLD. 103 
 
 (Jie-enter Farmer.) 
 
 Farmer. Well, girls, how is he ? Got him on his legs 
 again ? Look sharp now ! They are coming from the 
 trenches. Hark to them ! Singing-birds lit by glow- 
 worms ! {Approach soldiers ivith torches.) 
 
 William, a soldier, {singing) 
 
 With a shovel an' a spade, an' a ditch is soon made, 
 
 With a stake an' a withe to bind it ; 
 An' a sturdy band, an' a stalwart hand, 
 
 With a pike or an axe behind it. 
 
 Hillo, Sir Grumble ! Left us to do the hard work at 
 the trenches? Eh! How 's the rheumatism? Nay, no 
 offence, friend ! I 've seen thee fight. 
 
 Grum. And shalt see me again, if thou accost me 
 thus. 
 
 W. Against the Normans to-morrow ? Willingly ! By 
 St. George, man, I 've seen thee fight like a wild cat in 
 our Welsh wars. 
 
 Grum. Said I not so ? When I was in Wales — 
 
 W. Thou didst toast cheese upon a sword-point. But 
 what, ho ! Master Franklin again, I thought they had 
 burnt thee out like a wasp-nest. 
 
 Frank. And so they did, my gamecock, ricks and all, 
 above ground. But they didn't find out my inner cellar. 
 The best part of me, like a carrot, was underground. 
 Here, lads, roll down that big barrel yonder ! Here 's ale, 
 here 's meat, fit for the king, God bless him ! And may 
 the devil pick the Normans' bones ! Now, lasses, help 
 
 'em round ! 
 
 {Soldiers carouse, drinking healths; then they dance: 
 one girl says, ' Nay, Sir, fighting first, and kisses, 
 an 't please you, afterwards.')
 
 104 HAROLD. 
 
 W. Eh, lass, fighting first, and, if there 's aught left of 
 us, kisses and husbands afterwards ! 
 
 Grum. Nay, there 's to be no marrying in England 
 now, they say. 
 
 W. No marrying ! By all the saints in heaven, why 
 not ? 
 
 Grum. There 's to be an Interdict. 
 
 W. Interdict ! I'd interdict 'em. Are we dogs, beasts, 
 fiies of the air or dunghill .? Marry come up ! Harold 
 ull see to that. Pass the flagon here ! Drink-hsel ! Now 
 for a song ! [Sings) 
 
 Come drink to my bonny brown maid ! 
 Come drink to my bonny bro'wn maid I 
 
 For vicar or priest 
 
 She cares not the least. 
 But she "11 wed me, my bonny brown maid. 
 
 So here 's to my bonny brown maid, 
 And here's to my bonny brown maid I 
 
 Tho' I lie where I fall 
 
 Without blessing or pall, 
 She '11 lament me, my bonny brown maid. 
 
 And a fig, say I, for the Interdict ! 
 
 Voices. And so saj' I, and I. 
 
 W. And I'd sooner see a good fowl stewing in that 
 there pot than be blessed by all the saints in the 
 calendar. 
 
 Voices. And so would I, and I. 
 
 W. And a fig, say I, for those Normans ! It was a 
 good thought to let 'em all land here ; for now we've got 
 'em in a trap like. I never saw a Norman yet as I 
 couldn't crush in my hand, as if he were an egg. They're 
 a thin, undersized set of fellows, as bald as coots, and as
 
 HAROLD. 105 
 
 lean as radishes ; they won't stand a good stout push, 
 when you once get near 'em. But who's this a-coming ? 
 Hillo ! Jack the falconer ! a little the worse for liquor ! 
 Stay, I'll play him a trick. Halt ! Who goes there ? 
 (seizing bow and arrow). 
 
 Jack {carrying black jack under his arm). Eh ! 
 
 W. The word ! 
 
 J. The word ? 
 
 W. Yes, fellow, the pass-word ! 
 
 J. Blest if I remember! It wasn't cress, it wasn't 
 holly ! Hanged if I know ! Shoot and be— I'm honest 
 Jack the falconer, and I'm all for Harold and Holy Cross. 
 
 W. Well, and that is the word. Bravo, Jack ! Well 
 said, bully Jack ! Don't you know me .'' 
 
 J. Is that you, William ? Well now ! How you 
 frightened me ! I thought I were fallen among them 
 Normans, and I'd like to ha' spilt all this good liquor. 
 
 W. Good liquor ? Here, let's have it : I '11 see it's not 
 spilt for you. 
 
 /. No, thank you, that 's my sleeping draught. It was 
 heavy enough when I started ; but either it 's got lighter, 
 or I 've got stronger, as we came along. 
 
 W. We ! Who 's the other. Jack ? 
 
 Gruni. Why, his black namesake under the arm there. 
 Two Jacks, and one of 'em drunk ! 
 
 J. No, William, I'm not drunk. I see you well 
 enough. You're one, but — how's that? You've two 
 shadows. 
 
 Voices. Bravo ! Bravo, the falconer ! 
 
 J. No, I tell you, I 'm not drunk, and I '11 swear it be- 
 fore any justiss o' the peace in England. There's one 
 shadow, and — there 's another shadow.
 
 I06 HAROLD. 
 
 W. And three, and four, and fifty shadows, by that 
 reckoning. Well, never mind ! At all events I've not 
 two faces, or two hearts, you '11 grant me that. 
 
 J. No ! You're as single-hearted a fellow as one can 
 be who 's been twice married. But those shadows ! I see 
 what it is, William. You 've been drinking, and you 're 
 not the same man drunk as you are sober : you look 
 double. But, hillo ! It 's bedtime, lads. There 's some- 
 body yawning. And we 've got to fight to-morrow [falls 
 down). And who 's that tumbled ? It wasn't me, for I 'm 
 here. But — put that cask under my head, someone ! I '11 
 run you, or fight you, or sleep you (falls asleep). 
 
 W. With any man in Christendom to-morrow ! But 
 you must sleep first, Jack. Not all the pikes and lances 
 in this mortal world will wake thee now, till the drink is 
 out. There, take him away ! Gently ! And now come, 
 are you all good men of Kent here ? 
 
 Voices. All ! 
 
 W. Never a false man among you ? 
 
 Voices. Never a one ! 
 
 W. Come then, fill up, and I'll give you a song, and 
 you join in when the time comes ! (sings) 
 
 When o'er the Forelands the storm-cloud is thickening. 
 
 When the loud trumpet is pealing afar, 
 When to the spoil the fierce warships are quickening, 
 
 Forward then, Men of Kent, forward to war ! 
 
 When thro' the darkness the beacon-light flashing, 
 Shines over Brightling-head clear as a star, 
 
 Then, as the breakers on Dungeness dashing. 
 Forward, ye Men of Kent, forward to war !
 
 HAROLD. 107 
 
 Come from your hoplands, from rich mead and river. 
 
 Stand in the front, the invader to bar! 
 Let cowards shrink and go backward ! but never, 
 
 Never, ye Men of Kent, fail from the war ! 
 
 (They drink. S/ioufs q/"Drink-hael ! Was-hael !) 
 
 {Enter Harold, Gurth, Haco, attended.) 
 
 Har. Ah, you 're merry, my gallant men, and in good 
 stomach for the fight to-morrow. 
 
 W. Stomach, aye, Sir King ! We dined off Danes at 
 Stamford Bridge, and now we'll sup off Normans at 
 Hastings. 
 
 Har. Good, yet no rashness ! Rashness is not valour. 
 You must keep within these fences. English soldiers, 
 remember, behind English oak ! You will be trampled 
 down by their cavalry in the open. 
 
 W. Eh, well, I hope I will remember. 
 
 Har. Keep behind these breastworks ! Meet them 
 with pike and spear when they charge. Lop them down 
 with sword and battle-axe, when they climb. And then, 
 when I give the word to charge, up, and follow me. 
 There are too many of them to play with. 
 
 W. Many or few, they 've no Harold. 
 
 (Shouts o/' No ! No ! ' 'A Harold ! A Harold ! ') 
 
 (Enter De Graville and Hugues Maigrot, foitoived by Ertglisli 
 
 Thanes., cSt^c. 
 
 Har. But who comes here ? De Graville ? Ye are 
 
 come. 
 Monk. From William, claimant of the throne of 
 
 England, 
 To Harold, his sworn liegeman. 
 Har. Insolent !
 
 lo8 HAROLD. 
 
 What says your master, Duke of Normandy, 
 To Harold, king of England ? 
 
 Monk. Still admitting 
 
 That title under protest— Art thou king ? 
 Then what thou hast to enjoy, thou hast to render. 
 Give therefore up, according to thine oath, 
 The throne of England to its lawful master ! 
 Thy promise binds thee, and thine oath compels thee. 
 
 Har. The crown of England is not mine to give ; 
 It is enfeoffed to me, a people's trust, 
 And were I churlish so to cast it off. 
 As careless diver letting drop a pearl, 
 'Twould straightway fall into its source again. 
 And for my oath— O Sirs ! What devil 's here, 
 Upbraiding fraud, pretending sanctimony. 
 Against whose blackness, whose infernal hue, 
 My whiter fault shows purity itself, 
 A moon in cloud to all the night behind .' 
 Out on him, he to speak of perfidy ! 
 
 De G. Fear not ! Duke William can defend his 
 honour ; 
 Yet, if thou wilt not hear when honour calls thee, 
 Loth were he in such quarrel blood should flow, 
 Save his or thine. He dares thee meet him here, 
 Alone, on foot, both armies looking on. 
 And to that combat's all-deciding issue. 
 He dares entrust his fortune and his claims. 
 There lies his gage. 
 
 Gurth. Let me ! (offering to pick it up). 
 
 Har. Avenge my honour? 
 
 G. The king's ! 
 
 Har. The king commands thee, touch it not !
 
 HAROLD. 109 
 
 Mine was the challenge. O my dream, how oft 
 Through mists of hatred, bloodshot with revenge, 
 I saw this hour! And now— One of us two 
 To-morrow shall sleep calm. But what ? Ye murmur, 
 Your eyes look strange, my friends and countrymen. 
 
 A Thone. A nation is not as a popinjay 
 Shot for at fair, or market. 
 
 Thane 2. Nor a prize 
 
 In tourney-lists by gallants tilted for. 
 
 Har. Ha ! would ye check me 1 
 
 Thane i. Sire, it is not equal. 
 
 You stake — 
 
 Har. My life! 
 
 Thane i. Our all ! 
 
 Har. Is honour nothing ; 
 
 Stained at the fountain-head, whose stain descends 
 On you my subjects ? 
 
 Thane 2. Sire, we love your honour. 
 
 Har. Aye, as ye love your silver, which ye hoard 
 Regardless of its tarnish. 
 
 Thane i. Risk your life ! 
 
 It is your own to give or lose ; but. Sire, 
 You shall not risk our England. 
 
 Har. {after a pause). 'Tis their answer, 
 
 I could have wished it different. Breast to breast, 
 This battle-axe my weapon, God my trust ; 
 He had not failed me or my righteous cause. 
 
 De G. This is your answer then ; you will not meet 
 him ? 
 
 Har. Meet him ! I'll meet him at an army's head, 
 Where most befits a general. Yet, De Graville — 
 Stars in their courses sometimes cross and mingle —
 
 no HAROLD. 
 
 Seeks he yet more ? Tell him on yonder mound, 
 Where floats my banner, there I take m}'^ stand 
 Rooted till death ; and, dares he fight a man 
 Whose life he has darkened, there he'll find me still 
 Burning to meet him, to hurl traitor back 
 To his false teeth, then on his caitiff crest 
 Strike hard for England, and my great revenge. 
 
 De G. Sire, you have said. The Duke shall hear 
 your answer. 
 Now, Monk, your duty ! 
 
 Monk. Since thou hast no fear 
 
 To break that oath by saint and martyr witnessed, 
 Hear now the sovereign Pontiff, he who bears 
 The awful keys, that shut and open heaven, 
 Mightier than kings ! Thou art accursed, Harold, 
 Thou and thy people, all. No lawful issue 
 Spring from your loins ! Sky, earth, and air your foes, 
 Mildew and mouldworm gnaw and blast your plains ! 
 What famine leaves diseases swallow after ! 
 Cursed in life, then, life's long trouble over. 
 Death shovel down your unblest carrion ! 
 St. Peter's blessing marches with the Norman ; 
 Go on ! Ye move like Judas to your doom. 
 
 {Murmurs from the soldiers ' The Interdict.') 
 
 Har. (striding forward ivith uplifted arm). 
 Darest thou, blasphemer ? 
 
 Gurth. Harold ! 
 
 Har. Shall he live 
 
 Who mocks me thus ? 
 
 G. He cannot hurt thee. 
 
 Har. Here, 
 
 Before my soldiers !
 
 HA R OLD. Ill 
 
 G. {interposing). Brother, nay ! And thou, 
 Whose papal airs and maledictions shock 
 The ear of heaven, go, frighten timid dupes, 
 Scare softer climes ! you madden Englishmen. 
 How, Sirs, has Rome in matters temporal 
 Authority in England ? 
 
 Voices. Never ! Never ! 
 
 Thane. There never was, or shall be, in this realm 
 Authority to enforce us choose our king ; 
 Hence with the monk ! We'll hear no more of him. 
 
 G. Hence, pallid, hueless, wandering shape of evil ! 
 Hence, miscreant mischief, prophet of illwill ! 
 Hence to the shades, unfit for light of day ! 
 
 Har. Thanks, Gurth ! I was not master of myself. 
 When ministers of mercy so forget 
 Their holier task, we men of flesh and blood 
 May stand excused for thoughts of violence. 
 But you, De Graville, you ! I loved you once, 
 And do not hate j^ou now. Go, tell your Duke, 
 There is one thing in England that we prize 
 More than fantastic high discourse of honour. 
 An honest man. That he should covet England, 
 I blame him not : but thus his greed to cover 
 With saintliest gloss, and, Hke the pious villain, 
 Throw over all the mantle of religion — 
 Begone ! I sicken of your specious words. 
 
 De G. Farewell, Sir King ! We soon shall meet again. 
 
 Har. Aye, on the field of battle ! ( To an officer) See 
 them safe ! 
 I would not any harm befel them here 
 In this our camp. 
 
 {Exeunt De Graville and Monk, guarded.)
 
 112 HAROLD. 
 
 O friends, in yonder host 
 I saw the priest hound on the murderer, 
 The while the robber and the invader knelt 
 To draw down blessing on their impious arms. 
 Go you, fear nothing! Yon proud interdict 
 That apes heaven's thunder, and with mortal throat 
 Claims for its puny breath a power divine, 
 To higher ears than ours sounds blasphemy; 
 God keeps His thunder for Himself alone. 
 
 Thane. Fear not ! We know them, and their naughty 
 
 ways. 
 How little do they know our English heart, 
 To think us dupes of such hypocrisies ! 
 Har. Go then, sleep soundly ! and when earliest 
 
 dawn 
 Springs in the East, and every ruddy limb 
 Is up, aflame e'en to the finger-tips. 
 Then whet your courage on the rising sun ! 
 Then, all exhilarate with valiant dreams. 
 Spring you to arms ! Come all and stand with me, 
 Your swords yet bloody from the vanquished Dane, 
 Here on this height ; and, where I set you, stand 
 Rooted and steadfast. Steadfast is your name ; 
 Steadfast your boast down a long line of glory. 
 England no other fortress has, nor needs, 
 Save the stout heart, the strong arm, of her sons ; 
 Your bosoms are her bulwark. Come then all. 
 Swear, she shall not be poorer for this day ! 
 For, if we live, she shall have fame enough ; 
 And, if we die, we will enrich her so 
 With seeds of noblest valour, that her soil 
 Shall native grow to feats of hardihood :
 
 HAROLD 
 
 113 
 
 And on the name of England never stain 
 Shall briefly rest, but shall grow clear again : 
 And they who conquer her shall conquered be 
 By her unconquerable constancy. 
 And now, no more of wassail ! Go, and sleep ! 
 Fear not ! You fight for England, and her King. 
 
 (Exeunt soldiers with shouts, 'God save the King!') 
 
 Har. Haco, see all is quiet in the camp ! 
 
 Hac. {kneeling). Forgive me ! 
 
 Har. I forgive thee ? 
 
 Hac. All the ill 
 
 I did thee, thy true love's down-trampled flower, 
 A stinging-nettle planted in its stead. 
 With perilous suggestions, downward ways 
 Commended, not the eagle's track and thine : 
 And yet, believe, I swear it on this sword. 
 In love I did it. 
 
 Har. And that covers all. 
 
 Oh, Haco, 'tis the plague and curse of life, 
 Where we would bless to bring calamity 
 On those we love ; and still, the more we cherish, 
 The more we smooth the pathway, and avoid 
 The natural steep, the difficult way of things. 
 Purblind, impersonating Providence, 
 The more we make the misery of their lives. 
 I too have known this. Go ! Farewell ! To-morrow ! 
 
 {Exit Haco.) 
 Come, Gurth ! {Sits beside his tent, covering his face with 
 his hands.) 
 
 Gurth. You are troubled ? 
 
 Har. Spite of light and reason ! 
 
 Time was, I went to battle as a feast, 
 
 I
 
 114 HAROLD. 
 
 Gay as a bridegroom, light as tliistledown ; 
 But now — 
 
 G. The oath still haunts you ? 
 
 Har. Haunt ? O God, 
 
 Would that were all ! It is a part of me. 
 
 G. Those dead men's bones revived the memory? 
 
 Har. They did : I see them ever, and the eye 
 Closes in vain. I see them there. Avaunt ! 
 
 G. {kneeling). Brother ! 
 
 Har. What is it? 
 
 Q^ That cold treacherous man 
 
 Has you in chain : you cannot shake it off. 
 
 Har. Only with death ! 
 
 Q^ You burn to meet with him 
 
 As knight : your oath restrains you, being king ? 
 
 Har. So then— 
 
 G. So then, let others fight for you ! 
 
 Nay, Harold, we '11 not shame you. 
 
 j^fjf. This from you ? 
 
 G. What ? 
 
 Har. I of all men absent from the fight ! 
 
 G. Why not ? The person of a king is sacred. 
 
 Har. Yes, if he do his duty as a king, 
 The first to take, the last to quit the field. 
 Better a monarch dead than recreant! 
 
 G. But if all men desire, implore it of you ? 
 
 Har. To praise me now, then twit me afterwards ! 
 Already some condemn my broken oath; 
 Could I endure in honest English eyes 
 To read unuttered taunt of cowardice ? 
 I cannot do it. Lurked there a hundred deaths 
 In yon dark field, my fate impels me on.
 
 HAROLD. 115 
 
 G. Stay, Stay ! 
 
 Har. I cannot. Fate is more than man. 
 
 G. O for a hundred lives to give for you ! 
 
 Har. Better to keep them all to give for England ! 
 {Leading him forward.) 
 See, brother, see yon pair of heavenly stars ! 
 Dost thou remember how as wondering boys 
 We likened them to our two destinies, 
 So linked together in their upward rise, 
 So linked too in their fall. Thus will it be, 
 I feel it, now. To-morrow we shall mount 
 The sky of fame together, and there sit 
 In glory crowned, on that high pinnacle ; 
 Or, fallen together, on yon fatal field 
 Lie stretched to rise no moije. And now, good 
 
 night ! 
 These fears are of the darkness, not the dawn, 
 To-morrow with the sun's reawakened beam 
 I shall be calm as thou art. Brother, good night. 
 
 {They embrace: Giirth exit. Harold walks about, 
 gazing on the stars, and great comet then shining.) 
 So, peace at last ! And yet Creation's sigh 
 Sounds in my ears. There 's turmoil in the air. 
 On earth, on sea. Night-ravens croak around 
 Nature in throes ! Her travail 's imminent. 
 What is to be ? Did Haco give good counsel ? 
 Do I risk England's safety but for this. 
 To establish Harold's honour? Answer me, 
 Oh, deign some answer, cold unpitying stars ! 
 My brow is wet, though not with kindly dews : 
 My brain is burning, not with natural fire ; 
 Do ye disdain my agony ? They hear me ; 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 HAROLD. 
 
 The heavens are stirred. See yonder fiery sword S 
 Held in the grasp of some great Archangel, 
 Forethreatening doom ! Whose doom ? Or mine, or his ? 
 Speak, gentle heavens ! They speak not. And yet 
 
 somewhere 
 The event is known : the Immortals unconcerned 
 Know that, which we trembling, and ignorant, 
 Hemmed in by thick impenetrable night, 
 Gulphs yawning round us, dark, unfathomable. 
 Would give our lives to wot of; but one glimpse, 
 One flash, albeit to blind us. Hush ! Sweet music ! 
 Her voice ! She chides me, that with loftier faith 
 I ask the stars. O God, upon this people 
 Let not, for perjury or unfaith of mine. 
 Disaster come ! Mine was the sole offence : 
 Mine the weak heart, the trustless, timorous vow: 
 On me, me only, let thy judgment fall ! 
 Save and defend my people ! 
 
 {Enter Page, with harp.) 
 
 Come, boy, play to me that I may sleep! [Lies down 
 in tent, open on one side. Boy sings.) 
 
 Come to me, dream, sweet dream ! 
 
 Come when my life is low ! 
 Soft as the fitful stream 
 
 Heard when the night-winds blow ! 
 
 Come as the evening-star, 
 
 Bright o'er the sun's decay ! 
 Love, from thy throne afar, 
 
 Shine on me! Make night day! 
 
 1 The great comet, supposed to be Halley's comet, of that year.
 
 HAROLD. 117 
 
 Be with me in my pain ! 
 Lift up my weight of woe ! 
 
 Comfort my throbbing brain ! 
 Come to me ! Life is low. 
 
 {Harold sleeps, and page also. Vision rises of the scene of 
 his oath. Harold troubled. Then vision of Edith comes, 
 and drives it away. Music heard, singing faintly, 
 
 O amare ! O perire ! 
 O ad Deum pervenire ! 
 
 He stretches out his arms, and wakes, crying ' Edith.' She 
 appears on the stage, murmuring ' Harold.' He rises, 
 and opens his arms : she points upwards.) 
 
 Har. Are you an angel, or — 
 
 E. I heard you call, 
 
 And came to seek you. 
 
 Har. Edith, in this garb ? 
 
 E. My shield, my maiden armour ! 
 
 Har. Oh ! How changed ! 
 
 Still beautiful as ever, but how changed ! 
 Pardon ! 
 
 E. What pardon ? 
 
 Har. All the suffering hours — 
 
 E. The sweetest, loftiest hours my life has known ! 
 
 Har. Pardon, that mounting upward to the throne 
 I left you broken-hearted at the base. 
 
 E. And your own heart ? Oh, name not happiness ! 
 Happy whom England looks to, nations honour ! 
 
 Har. Yet happier he, forsaken by all else. 
 Whom one heart loves ! 
 
 E. Forsaken ? This great host ? 
 
 Har. Is but a handful to our enemies.
 
 Il8 HAROLD. 
 
 E. Where are the men ? 
 
 Har. At home, in idleness ! 
 
 Counting their money, fattening up their beeves ! 
 E. But they will come. Patience, and trust to time ! 
 Har. Time, Edith, time ! We are time's veriest fools. 
 Time crowns the conqueror, and the hero ; then 
 The robber, and the intriguer. All through time! 
 And oft it happens that not lacking virtue. 
 But lacking time, in pushes of great moment, 
 A week, a day, an hour, when needed most. 
 The ungrasped sceptre from the unpractised hand 
 Falls, and a knave succeeds him. 
 E. Say you so? 
 
 Har. And all my dream, the England that should be, 
 The peaceful, happy England with safe shores, 
 Her ancient scars forgot like childish wounds. 
 Her future, hke a river untainted yet, 
 From reach to reach of glory broadening down 
 On to immeasurable destinies. 
 Gone like a birth that prematurely breathes ; 
 One sigh, then all is over. 
 
 E. Can it be? 
 
 Did you not teach me justice never dies ; 
 That virtue still immortal, like the Gods, 
 Suffers, not perishes ? 'Tis but to purge 
 The indolence and torpor from the blood, 
 The insolence and bluster from the brain, 
 We endure scourging. 
 
 Har. Aye ! But on whose back 
 
 Falls the red scourge? Not on the sluggish drone. 
 Not on the meretricious, boastful tongue. 
 Not on the authors of our miseries !
 
 HAROLD. 119 
 
 'Tis we, we finer spirits who give our blood, 
 All, that the base may prosper. 
 
 E. Let them be ! 
 
 We do not make them better thinking of them ; 
 Ourselves we shall make worse. All may go well. 
 
 Har. Well ! Hast not heard ? 
 
 E. Of what ? 
 
 Har. Of Mercia gone. 
 
 E. Mercia ? Her Mercia ! 
 
 Har. At our utmost need 
 
 Edwin and Morcar fail me. 
 
 E. Traitors twain ! 
 
 I knew it, said it, saw it in my soul : 
 Love is avenged — 
 
 Har. On us who cast out love. 
 
 E. Through us on England. 
 
 Har. Peace ! We shall go mad 
 
 If we look backward. Edith, I have sworn, 
 Sworn by God's honour and His dreadful throne. 
 Never to let that inward snake uncoil. 
 Whose sting is thought, of past felicities ; 
 Nor tread less firmly for an idiot fear 
 Of evils yet unborn. And yet 'twill come, 
 (O righteous heaven, O retribution due ! 
 Call that not fate, which was infatuate!) 
 'Twill come, like Furies with their snaky hair 
 Unbound, lost honour, love's catastrophe, 
 With what I know not dire of shock and shame. 
 On all, on England. Hither, oh, reach thy hand, 
 There's magic in a touch, that's human still, 
 O comfortable, fond, familiar hand 
 To exorcise unholy thoughts away,
 
 I20 HAROLD. 
 
 When fiends assail us. Girl, as I stand here, 
 Here wrestling with my agony all night long, 
 Till the great dewdrops thick make moist my brow, 
 There 's but a hair 'twixt me and that extreme 
 I dread to think on, 
 
 E. Peace, thou man beloved ! 
 
 Play to him softly, boy ! He loves sweet music. 
 
 {Boy plays.) 
 
 Har. Betrayed, betrayed ! 
 
 E. Yet what a host remains, 
 
 Nursing their strength as misers all night long 
 To spend to-morrow like to prodigals. 
 All in thy cause. For who so gashed and marred. 
 Crushed out of shape and likeness of a man. 
 But, let the Norman sword cut deep enough, 
 'Twill only find thine image rooted there ; 
 With thy last name surviving agony. 
 
 Har. Oh, thou couldst root an earthquake to its bed, 
 Or chain a whirlwind, or with magic hand 
 Light altar-candles from volcano's fire. 
 
 E. Then now as once in other brighter garb 
 I would prevent the dewy morning-star 
 To pin a rose or kerchief on thy bosom. 
 And see thee start ; so now in robe of sorrow, 
 (Which, being like my fortunes, yet I love. 
 And would not change for all the hues of summer) 
 I bid thee forth. Go, and in dullest hearts 
 Strike fire, make heroes! England all thy thought; 
 England thy mother, and thy mistress : lo ! 
 Image her faint and bleeding, at her throat 
 The bloodstained sword ; those breasts that nursed thee 
 bare ;
 
 HAROLD. 131 
 
 The hands that were thy playmates piteous raised, 
 Pleading mute-eloquent; while the savage foe, 
 Tiptoe to strike, yet pauses with desire, 
 Hideous 'twixt lust and murder. 
 
 Har. Say no more ! 
 
 Thy breath inspires me, bears me strongly up 
 On wing of eagles. Come or life, or death, 
 I reck not ; life is glory, death release. 
 But, Edith, you ? 
 
 E. I'll to a nunnery, 
 
 The fight being over. 
 
 Har. 'Tis a living death. 
 
 You shall not. 
 
 E. Harold ! 
 
 Har. You, in your sweet youth, 
 
 A nunnery, never ! . 
 
 E. It is all that's left: 
 
 The dead heart hidden in the living tomb : 
 Why should I cloud earth's sunlight with my woe ? 
 
 Har. Is 't come to this ? 
 
 E. The cloister, or the home ; 
 
 Life's second Eden, or life's sepulchre ; 
 There 's no third place for women. 
 
 Har. Hast thou thought 
 
 What 'tis to grow old in the instant ; pass 
 From life and love ; unseen the face of men ; 
 No voice, no correspondence of sweet sound 
 Cheering thy prison-house ; to be good as dead, 
 Buried, without the heartsease on the grave : 
 Have you thought of this ? 
 
 E. Aye, of this, and more 
 
 I may not tell thee, of a fire within.
 
 122 HAROLD. 
 
 That must for others burn, or burn itself, 
 An altar-flame, or else a funeral-pyre, 
 Leaving behind dead ashes. 
 
 Har. Oh, lost, lost ! 
 
 Rome, thou hast conquered yet a second time. 
 But stay, one word ! If I should die to-morrow, 
 Live not to grow, as those who live too long. 
 Aged, thy beauty cankered with decay ! 
 I should not know thee in the courts above 
 Less sweet, less perfect. Let us die together. 
 Die, and embosomed on some passionless cloud 
 Float into bliss ! There is no bliss alone. 
 Alone, all memory, all regret, all tears. 
 Promise ! 
 
 E. If thou must die, we die together. 
 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Har. A little longer ! 
 
 E. Night's faint stars 
 
 Burn low, and the chill breath of wakening morn, 
 Like the cold doomsman's summons, rude and near, 
 Bids me begone. 
 
 Har. Out in the darkness.? Nay, 
 
 Stay with me, let me shield thee! There, out there, 
 Who will protect thee ? 
 
 E. He in Whom I trust! 
 
 Look up ! 
 
 Har. Yet stay ! Thy presence strengthens me ; 
 Girl, if there were a thousand like to thee, 
 111 would it fare this day with Normandy. 
 Ah, thou still goest. 
 
 E. In the battle's din 
 
 My spirit shall go with thee.
 
 HAROLD. 123 
 
 Har. {kneeling). Then, sweet spirit, 
 
 If thou be spirit, bless me ere thou go ! 
 
 E. (lifting up her hands). Friend, brother, all, and more 
 than all to me ! 
 
 Har. One kiss ! 
 
 E. Those lips are hers. 
 
 Har. And thine? 
 
 E. - Are heaven's. 
 
 Har. Then stooping down, sweet angel, from above, 
 Bring thine own heaven to calm this aching brow ! 
 That is not her's. 
 
 E. My knight ! My noble one ! 
 
 [Kisses his forehead.) 
 There while life lasts, still England lives in thee. 
 
 Har. There while thought lives, I live to think on thee. 
 [Trumpets are heard: the Monk draws near.) 
 
 Monk. We must begone. The enemy wakes betimes. 
 
 Har. [fiercely). While England sleeps. 
 
 E. She sleeps because she trusts. 
 
 I leave thee watching o'er the sleep of England. 
 Farewell, for ever ! [Exit with Monk.) 
 
 Har. Till we part no more ! 
 
 She trusts me; aye! and I'll deserve her trust; 
 Farewell, sweet friend ! Come hither, sentinel ! 
 Thou who hast watched for me this sleepless night, 
 
 [Sentinel approaches, and is dismissed.) 
 Take now thy rest ! I'll watch an hour for thee. 
 Now, all ye pallid fears and whileome ghosts, 
 Back to your dens ! Come, valour-breathing morn, 
 With trumpet and heart-stirring clarion come. 
 Chasing ill dreams ! Stay, wanderers of the dark ! 
 What do ye here, when good men sleep around :
 
 124 HAROLD. 
 
 {Gurth and Haco seen going their rounds.) 
 
 Gurth and young Haco ? 
 
 Hac. Say, what left thee there ? 
 
 Was it of earth ? 
 
 Har. Far less of earth than heaven, 
 
 Like yon blest morning. See, how bright the dawn. 
 Breathless, and lovely as an infant's sleep. 
 Laid on its mother's breast of alabaster. 
 Rosy and calm. How hushed, how beautiful. 
 Yet ushering in the wildest bloodiest day 
 Rose ever, big with England's destiny. 
 What shall it bring? I reck not. Come what will, 
 Or ruin, blacker than a prophet's dream ; 
 Or triumph, mad triumphant jubilee ; 
 Downfall, or conquest glory-garlanded ; 
 We'll play our part ; we'll brave it out as men 
 Set in the front, all England watching us : 
 And if we fail, then they who shall come after, 
 In far-off years fondly remembering us. 
 Betrayed yet true, brave but unfortunate, — 
 Embracing death, and in her timeless womb 
 Begetting countless heirs of sacrifice, — 
 Shall feel no shame for those who fell at Hastings, 
 No blush for England's soldiers and her king. 
 Now for the fight, a crown to lose or save. 
 The throne of Cerdic, or a soldier's grave !
 
 ACT IV. 
 Scene I. 
 
 (On the field of Hastings, a ruined village, with villagers.) 
 
 Old man. Here I have lived for more than fifty year, 
 to end a beggar. And the house I built with my own 
 hands, where I brought thee, wife Margery, in the grey 
 wimple, and red hood, on our wedding-day. Do you 
 remember, Margery? 
 
 Margery. Aye, that I do. 
 
 Old man. And now it's all a black, black ruin, there ! 
 And my son ! They have killed my son. 
 
 Marg. All gone ! Nothing left for it, but to starve ! 
 And winter coming ! 
 
 Old man. Those others ! Why didn't they come ? 
 Why wouldn't they fight ? Those others ! 
 
 Cliild. (running to a cage, left in the ruins.) My bird ! 
 my bird ! Mother, they have left my bird. Ah ! 
 
 [Looking at her hands with a cry.) 
 
 Mother. What is it ? 
 
 Child. Blood ! 
 
 Mother. Her father's ! And I got this defending him ! 
 
 {Pointing to her wounded arm.) 
 
 Old man. And so young Stephen's gone. Well, he 
 was a — {shaking his head.) 
 
 Marg. Aye, that he were. 
 
 Old man. Come, wife, let us be jogging !
 
 126 HAROLD. 
 
 Marg. Nay, I'll die where I lived, where my babes 
 were born, here. 
 
 Old man. Well, there's one comfort. We're all of a 
 piece. One's as bad off as another. What say you, 
 Gaffer ? 
 
 Old man 2. Why do they leave the old to bury the 
 young? Why not kill all together? But who's yon ? A 
 priest, and nun ! Just in time to pray for 'em ! 
 (Enter Edith and Monk.) 
 
 Monk. We can go no farther, daughter. Here shall 
 you kneel, and pray for Harold. 
 
 E. But where ? How can I see him ? Hark ! It is 
 the fight, hard by. 
 
 M. There, on that mound ! You will see all there. 
 
 E. And you ? You have been a soldier, father ; have 
 worn helmet, and carried sword. 
 
 M. In my old carnal days, my days of sin. 
 
 E. And now? 
 
 M. The charred log dreads the fire. Tempt me no 
 farther ! Mount then you only ! From that vantage- 
 ground you will see all. 
 
 {Edith mounts, while Monk sits, and tells his beads : 
 villagers gather round.) 
 
 M. One, two, three, four ! I hear the Abbey toll ! 
 One, two, three, four ! It tolls for evensong : 
 And Father Ambrose leads the holy chant, 
 Of peace on earth, goodwill to mortal men. 
 The song heaven loves. Rise up, sweet litanies ! 
 Rise up, and at the everlasting doors, 
 Whose double gate lets mercy issue forth, 
 With war's harsh discord softly enter in ! 
 
 {Faint sound 0/ bells, and voices.)
 
 HAROLD. 127 
 
 E. Hist, Father, hist ! 
 
 M. Who calls me? 
 
 E. Father, here ! 
 
 M. Oh, to sing Miserere once again. 
 Snug in my stall ! 
 
 E. They come ; they move this way. 
 
 M. Who come? 
 
 E. I know not. Quick ! Beside me ! Here ! 
 
 M. I dare not. 
 
 E. Nay, I need you. Prythee, come ! 
 
 M. To pray for peace ! 
 
 E. When we have conquered war. 
 
 M. (slowly mounting.) Quis requiescet in monte sacro ? 
 
 E. Hark ! 'Tis his voice, like thunder drowning all. 
 
 Harold {heard in the distance) 
 Stand but fast, and we shall win the day yet, my merrj' 
 men ! Nothing is behind you. Stand firm ! 
 
 (Shouts of ' Harold, and Holy Cross ! ' answered by, 
 ' Ho Rou, Ho Rou ! ' Villagers shout, ' Harold and 
 Holy Cross ! ' and last of all the Monk also.) 
 
 M. Ha ! 'Tis the battle. Young again, by heaven ! 
 
 E. Do you still feel it. Father? 
 
 M. Feel it, girl? " 
 
 In every pore like sunshine ! Lo, the blood 
 Burns in the veins : obstruction vanishes. 
 Oh ! for the strength with which I smote the Dane. 
 See ! The dust clears. 
 
 E. And breaking through the mist 
 
 Shield locked with shield in long unbroken line. 
 Stand England's cliampions. 
 
 M. Ah ! But guard it well,
 
 128 HAROLD. 
 
 That tree-topped mound, our ark, our Ararat ! 
 That is the key, the centre. 
 
 Villager. Do they yield? 
 
 M. Yield ! Do yon cliffs yield when the breakers 
 roar? 
 Horseman and rider sink beneath their blows, 
 Lopped head and helm, shorn like to poppy-heads, 
 Crimsoning the greensward. While above them still 
 Waves proudly England's banner. 
 
 E. It I wove 
 
 For Harold ! 
 
 M. And among them, like a tower. 
 
 Stands one most like a hero. 
 
 E. It is he, 
 
 Harold! {Villagers shout,' KVidxoXdiX A Harold ! ') But 
 
 look ! That cloud ! And there, another ! 
 Light flashing through them, like a sun in storm ! 
 
 M. Clouds ? They are Normans : and those flashing 
 lights 
 Helmets, not sunbeams. Sancta Maria, now 
 'Twere worth long years of fire in purgatory 
 To strike one blow, one goodly blow, for England, 
 Young and in arms. By heaven, they'll conquer yet. 
 Splendidly fought ! well led ! Stand only firm, 
 Quit not your fences, gallant Englishmen ! 
 Ah, my old eyes ! They fail me. Look you, daughter ! 
 
 E. The dust of trampling chargers swallows all. 
 
 M. Yet look! 'Twill clear. 
 
 E. With lances all abreast, 
 
 They come, men, horses, banners, waving plumes. 
 Flushed all with sunset; see, the lightning-spears, 
 The level lightning, the death-darting spears;
 
 HAROLD, 129 
 
 Behind them rolls the thunder. O great God, 
 Pent in one mass, man's greatest and his worst 
 Launched at our innocent heads ! I'll look no longer. 
 Eyes, veil your light ! Knees, to your better task ! 
 You too, good people, kneel and pray for him 
 Who loved you, Harold ! and England ! Pray for them ! 
 {They kneel below: the monk holds up the Cross above: 
 they cry ' Save us ! Save us ! ' Sounds of the battle 
 heard in the distance : then,) 
 E. Hark ! It grows slacker. Now it rolls this way. 
 We are saved ! we conquer ! 
 
 (Flying Normans seen in the near foreground : shouts of 
 'All is lost !' 'The Duke is down : I saw it : he is 
 dead!') 
 Duke (rushing in, helmet in hand.) 
 Dead ! Nay, he hves to make a ghost of him 
 Who dares fly further. What ? Buy one hour's life 
 With shame for ever.' You, old Rollo's seed. 
 Degenerate ! You, of those tremendous sires 
 Bastards, not heirs! How say you, 'AH is lost'.? 
 Fools, not to know I never won a fight 
 But first I lost it, and my proudest triumphs. 
 Like hard-earned feast of starving mariners. 
 Were seasoned with sweet relish of despair : 
 So desperate seemed my fortune, till she turned 
 And granted all her favours. Ah, and see! 
 She grants them now. By heaven, they break, they 
 
 come, 
 They quit their stronghold. Oh, I shall call you girls, 
 Not men but girls, if e'er those madmen gain 
 Their fences more. And now, my countrymen, 
 Remettled to your task with courage new, 
 
 K
 
 130 ' HAROLD. 
 
 Where honour calls, bright honour, with old fame, 
 Reaped on a hundred fields in Normandy, 
 Give me this day ! But this one effort more ! 
 'Tis the last arrow brings the eagle down; 
 'Tis the last billow wafts you to the shore ; 
 Swear not to fail ! No protestations now ! 
 Deeds, I want deeds. From yonder armed height 
 Bring me a crown ! Then shall ye reap reward 
 Richer than Alexander grasped in dreams, 
 Or Caesar sighed for : but this one last day : 
 Life is not given except for noble deeds : 
 Then rest for ever ! then fortune, all, is yours. 
 And England mine. On, on to victory ! 
 
 (Rushes out, followed by soldiers.) 
 
 Monk. The fearful man ! 
 
 E. What born of flesh and blood 
 
 Can stand against him ? 
 
 M. Look ! I cannot see. 
 
 Come they still onward ? 
 
 E Now they see their fault. 
 
 They waver, pause : their leaders force them back. 
 
 Villager. Whom ? 
 
 E. Our brave soldiers ! They as stubborn mastiffs, 
 Shoulder to shoulder, fronting still the foe. 
 As though for each foot backward they would go 
 Still forward ten, yield slowly ! Quicker ! Oh, 
 Quicker, brave hearts ! They are near you. At your 
 
 heels 
 The weltering flood ! It is a race for life : 
 Who wins, wins England. Laggards ! Now, at last 
 Your shelter reached, in with you ! Ah, too late ! 
 Too late! The knights are on them. Trampled down.
 
 HAROLD. 
 
 131 
 
 Hoof-trodden, crushed, torn, mangled! Beast to man, 
 Not breast to breast, Norman to Englishman ! 
 This is not battle ! Few regain the mound ; 
 Few, but all heroes. Hark ! 
 
 Har. Stand firm, and fear not ! 
 
 Still am I with you. 
 
 Duke. Fools ! Shoot higher, higher ! 
 
 Not in the wood, but up to heaven, to fall 
 Like doom upon them ! In their faces ! Thus ! 
 Kill, kill ! Night comes. Now or never ! 
 
 {A great cry heard.) 
 
 E. Ah ! 'Tis over. 
 
 That was his voice : his mighty heart there broke. 
 And all is ended, and the sun goes down. 
 O Harold, England ! 
 
 [Covers her face with her hands: Norman women, with 
 knives and torches, rush on the stage, shrieking 'To 
 the slaughter ! ') 
 
 M. Spirits of night, their hellish work begins. 
 
 ( Curtain falls. Sad music Jieard.) 
 
 Scene II. 
 
 {Room at Chichester, not far from the battle, belonging to Simon, 
 
 a Jew.') 
 
 Simon. They are at it, now, hard by, on the field of 
 Hastings. Norman hammer on Saxon anvil : Saxon 
 pole-axe on Norman head-piece. Which will hammer 
 longest, and hardest ? And which, when it is over, will 
 come to old Simon, to lend him moneys ? Ah, I like not 
 this fighting, these wars. 'Tis ill fishing in troubled 
 
 K 2
 
 132 HAROLD. 
 
 waters. A wrong cast to this side, or that side, and you 
 may lose all. See now, (takes out one of Harold's coins) 
 ' Harold, Pax.' That is good. Would it were peace 
 everywhere ! Then are the rents paid, and the monej^s 
 come in, and the poor Jew gets his own. Holy Moses, 
 what was that.' (/tastily hides the coin.) It was nothing. 
 A mouse I Crumbs from my ^yesterday's dinner ! I am 
 undone with mice. What be the cats doing? Truly a 
 good peace, with moneys wanted everywhere, at good 
 interest, and on good security, that were not far from 
 Paradise ! Ah ! (knock at the door) 
 
 {Enter tzvo Gentlemen, muffled, one yoimg, one older!) 
 
 Gent. I. Simon, we want mone}'. 
 ■ S. And where should I find moneys in times like 
 these ? 
 
 Gent. I. In that strong box, or the hole in the wall 
 yonder, or in that chimney-corner beneath the hearth- 
 stone : or {shakes him) Heavens, how he rattles ! He is 
 made of gold. 
 
 S. Nay, gentlemen, good gentlemen, my keys! {pro- 
 ducing them) do not rob me ! 
 
 Gent. I. Not if you'll use your keys to unlock those 
 strong boxes. Come, Simon, don't be greedy ! We don't 
 want to rob you, but money we must have. 
 
 S. And for what should you want moneys ? 
 
 Gent. I. Why to go fighting, to be sure ! to help 
 Harold against the Normans. 
 
 S. You are too late. They are fighting now. 
 
 Gent. 2. What ? Now, Simon .' How know you that ? 
 
 S. Enough, I know it. You ma}^ count upon it, as on 
 your Gospels. While we stand here, they are fighting
 
 HAROLD. 133 
 
 yonder (they shoiv amasement). Why did you not go 
 yesterday ? 
 
 Gent. I. Well, yesterday, to speak truth, I was drawing 
 a badger. 
 
 S. Father Abraham, a badger ! And he will fight for 
 his hole, will he not ? 
 
 Gent. I. Of course he will, fight to the death. That is 
 the fun of it. 
 
 S. The fun of it ! A poor beast, having no more sense 
 than a badger, will yet fight for his hole, to the death. 
 And you, English, will not fight for your fine country, 
 till it is too late. And you want moneys ? [After a pause) 
 And what shall be my security .'' 
 
 Gent. 2. I, old Simon. I will pledge part of my land 
 for this young friend of mine, to buy him horse and 
 harness ; and that I think is security, even for you. 
 
 S. Security .' Yes ! Good enough till the Normans 
 take it. 
 
 Gent. I. Come you screw, you Jacob-seed, you old 
 bloodsucker, give us the money at once, or else — (a tap 
 heard at the window). 
 
 S. Stay a little! {goes to the windoiu, and takes in a 
 message brought by a horseman). A message from my 
 Sarah, gentlemen ! By your leave ! {reads hastily) 
 
 'Harold is winning: the Normans lie thick upon the 
 field : will send later tidings by fire-signals, as agreed. 
 
 Yours, Isaac.' 
 Good ! Gentlemen ! And you would have moneys on 
 good security, his land : and on good interest. 
 
 Gent. I. By which you mean monstrous usury. No, 
 I cannot allow that. 
 
 Gent. 2. No matter, Wilfred, it is no great matter : 1
 
 134 HAROLD. 
 
 can still afiford it. [A slight altercation betiveen them, during 
 which Simon brings out a bag of money, with pen and 
 parchment.) 
 
 S. See, here are the moneys. And here is a little 
 bond, a small matter, which you will each sign for me. 
 There I will give you light to see it. You shall write 
 your names down here. {Moves a lamp toivards them.) 
 Stay! You did say the land should be my security. 
 Which land .? 
 
 Gent. 2. The woodland ! You've had most of the rest 
 before. 
 
 S. The woodland ! Good ! I like that, for wood is 
 money. {Aside) That signal ! 
 
 Gent. 2. But quick ! Your parchment ! 
 
 S. That signal ! [aside). What, you would have in one 
 moment what took me years to gather ? 
 
 Gent. I. Out of our plunder, our very bones. 
 
 S. Aye, while I saved what you wasted. 
 
 Gent. I. Quick ! 
 
 S. Stay ! {Aside) Will that signal never come ? You 
 would have the money now ? 
 
 Gent. 1. Instantly ! 
 
 S. Instantly ? There must be some abatement for 
 instantly. For a hundred pounds you shall have fifty. 
 See now ! 
 
 Gent. I. You thief, you curmudgeon, you — 
 
 S. As you will, gentlemen ! Why do j^ou come to 
 me — 
 
 Gent. I. Because you have what we want. 
 
 Gent. 2. Nay, Wilfrid, we waste time. Give me the 
 parchment ! {He is about to sign when a light flashes in at 
 the window.)
 
 HAROLD. 135 
 
 S. There! Stay! {seizes on the parchment.) 
 Gent. I and 2. What was that ? Is it a house on fire ? 
 There, let us finish it ! 
 
 5. Nay ! It is my signal. One fire ! 'The Normans 
 are gaining ground.' {A second light, during ivhich per- 
 sons rush in, crying, ' What is it ? What news, Simon ? ') 
 Two fires ! 'The English are defeated.' If it come again, 
 it is all over with you. {A third light: Simon leaps up 
 with frantic haste, seising his money) ' Harold is dead.) 
 Moneys, I give you moneys ? Never ! Out, sluggards ! 
 Ye are too late. Begone ! Your Harold is no more. 
 Ye should have helped him yesterday. And this now 
 {shaking his money) is not for you, but for the Norman. 
 And Heaven help the poor plundered, preyed on, per- 
 secuted Jew ! {drives them out). 
 
 Scene III. 
 {The field of Hastings. William and his troops, torchliglit.) 
 
 Fitsosborne. We pray you, Sire, accept the crown of 
 England, 
 Fallen from the usurper, found on yonder plain ! 
 And as our fathers did, on battlefield, 
 Elect their worthiest sovereign whom to serve : 
 So we thy knights, thy nobles, greet our King, 
 Long life and hail, William the Conqueror ! 
 
 Barons. And we thy barons swear to guard the 
 Crown, 
 Our swords, our honour, and our faith upon it I
 
 136 HAROLD. 
 
 Odo. And holy Church doth consecrate the Crown, 
 Her grace, her blessing, and her prayers upon it ! 
 
 Soldiers. And we thy soldiers swear to serve the 
 Crown, 
 Our blood, our service, and our lives upon it ! 
 
 Duke {lifting the crown.) These hands are bloody that 
 do grasp the Crown, 
 Yet bloodier, see, the Crown from him who bore it, 
 Bloodiest of all, the field whereon 'twas won. 
 So be it ! Since ye would not come in peace 
 Under my yoke, stiff-necked Englishmen, 
 Now pay the forfeit and full cost of war ! 
 This be my prize ! All else in this fair realm. 
 Its shadowy forests, its well-watered meads. 
 Its fat flocks ranging white o'er boundless plains, 
 City and wall, old castles grey with time, 
 Wide fields, rich manors, joyous pleasances, 
 With streams, thro' which the flooding ocean pours 
 Bringing earth's wealth from far-off continents : 
 All this be yours ! Take it, but under pledge. 
 To guard it ! Force at length doth govern all : 
 Force, only sovereign till a stronger come : 
 And freedom, like a jealous mistress, claims 
 Obedience, order, union of the free. 
 Service, and over all one Head supreme. 
 So that who touches one man, injures all. 
 Then where these English, hke their native oaks. 
 Stood single, sheltering each his separate field. 
 There do ye, warders of a larger good, 
 Who fight, not for a part, but for a whole, 
 A people ready, a nation all in arms, 
 Stand fast in ranks, each ordered, all combined.
 
 HAROLD. 137 
 
 Links of a vast embattled harmony ; 
 
 Guard well your coasts, watch every wind that blows, 
 
 Suspect the very breakers round your shores, 
 
 Lest they be leagued to admit your enemies ! 
 
 Cover with armed fleets your subject seas ! 
 
 Be strong, be daring, yet be provident ! 
 
 And then far hence, in ages yet to come, 
 
 Saxon with Norman, Nature's sturdiest growth 
 
 With graft of happier blending, ye shall grow 
 
 Into one race, one people, whose great heirs 
 
 Filled with a fierce yet unconsuming fire, 
 
 An iron race, a race indomitable, 
 
 With souls too large for these our island-bounds. 
 
 Shall hence go forth to subjugate the world ! 
 
 Enter two seeming Monks, one of them Edith in disguise. 
 
 De Graville. Two poor old monks from Waltham, 
 gracious Sire, 
 Would see your Highness. 
 
 Duke. What would you .' 
 
 Monk. Sire, a boon ! 
 
 Duke. If it may rightly stand with England's honour, 
 The boon is thine. 
 
 Monk. We ask you, Sire, for leave 
 
 To search the field, and 'mid the slain discover 
 The corpse of Harold. 
 
 Duke. What ! 
 
 Monk. To take it hence 
 
 To Waltham, where the monks his bounty fed. 
 Shall evermore sing masses for his soul. 
 
 Duke. God's splendour ! no! He lies beneath the ban. 
 Living he did ofiend of sacrilege,
 
 138 HAROLD. 
 
 And where high Heaven o'ertook him, let him he ! 
 No grass will grow upon a perjurer's grave. 
 
 Monk. Yet, Sire, have mercy ! If hard-judging Justice 
 Be thus extreme to punish each offence, 
 What man is he would merit burial ? 
 
 Duke. Begone ! I will not suffer it. 
 
 De Graville. Nay, my liege. 
 
 Let me beseech you ! 
 
 Duke. You ! De Graville ! 
 
 De G. Sire ! 
 
 While Harold lived, I held him recreant, 
 False knight and traitor to his oath : his greatness. 
 Like stars that make night's blackness yet more black, 
 Did but make greater his offence ; but pow. 
 Now he is gone, we war not with the dead ; 
 In his own Abbey let him lie and sleep, 
 And these old men with masses shrive his soul ! 
 
 Duke. De Graville, no ! Harold indeed is dead, 
 But his cause lives : the viper-blood still breathes ; 
 Wherever foot is set, a serpent stings ; 
 And what if thus entombed in Waltham's pile, 
 A halo spread about his guilty bones, 
 He grow a saint, heroic, canonized, 
 Sacred the very stillness round his tomb, 
 While mourning myriads, pilgrims to his shrine, 
 Thence shall return, rebels and traitorous : 
 Until a ghostly rival pluck me down, 
 A spectre rise, and thrust me from my chair ? 
 
 De G. Nay, Sire ! I ask but this, reward of all. 
 Payment in full of all my services. 
 
 Duke. Too much ! In England there are soldiers still, 
 Twenty to one, to those we conquer'd here.
 
 HAROLD. 139 
 
 DeG. Yet— 
 
 Duke. Let all things ill-omened prey on him ! 
 
 Kites of the air are fitting traitor's tomb ; 
 Here let him lie: no man to bury him! 
 
 Edith. What, no man ? 
 
 Duke. None ! 
 
 Edith, {throiinng off her hood and cloak). Then let a 
 woman plead ! 
 Plead angels for me ! Saints inspire my tongue ! 
 Kites feed on Harold ? carrion birds of air 
 Touch his dear head ? Nay, Sire, tho' daring all, 
 By heaven, you dare not outrage thus the dead ! 
 
 Duke. Dare not ? I dare not ? Let me hear a man 
 Say, dare not, to me ! 
 
 Edith. If he erred, it was 
 
 That he loved England ; and shall he alone 
 In England lie unburied ? 
 
 Duke. Who is it? 
 
 De G. Alas ! the Lady Edith ! 
 
 E. Rather say, 
 
 In times far hence, happy and fortunate, 
 I was the Lady Edith whom you knew, 
 Flattered of all ; in camp and tournament 
 A theme of minstrelsy, a light of song ; — 
 Forgive me, heaven, recalling happier days ! — 
 Now but a dream, a ghost, I wander here. 
 Dream of past bliss, ghost of remembered joys, 
 Pale sorrow's shadow led by old despair. 
 Dead to all else, still living but for this. 
 To find out Harold, and to bury him. 
 
 Duke. Lady, my word is spoken. 
 
 E. Yet that word
 
 HO HAROLD. 
 
 Can be recalled. See, I do make appeal 
 
 To all men here : brave knights, if valour move you, 
 
 Priests, in the name of Christian charities, 
 
 Sirs, all, if aught of human in you dwell, 
 
 Some tenderer spot, some softer memory, 
 
 Not stiffen'd and grown hard with strokes of war. 
 
 Pity the fallen ! Oh, yes, you are not stones, 
 
 You would not I should sit as Rizpah here, 
 
 Alone wnth tempests, and the wintry moon, 
 
 Her princes slain, her heart a sepulchre, 
 
 Scaring the foul night-ravens from their prey, 
 
 (Signs of emotion among those present.) 
 Oh, thanks ! Those gracious and relenting tears 
 Give what I ask. You will restore him to me : 
 Be brave, yet, true to knighthood's loftier vow. 
 Be gentle ; chivalry loves gentleness : 
 And grant me in these true and tender arms 
 To bear him hence, and in some holy place. 
 Where men abide the Judgment, lay him down. 
 Then sit beside his tomb, and weep for him. 
 Voices. I. Let her have the body. 
 
 2. He slew my brother, yet I would not deny him 
 Christian burial. 
 
 3. We war not with women. 
 
 Odo. Yield, brother ! It were well. Press not too far 
 A right undoubted ! 'Gainst the public sense 
 To damn his memory were to hallow it. 
 
 Duke. Yield ? I ! 
 
 O. Who yields not is o'erthrown at last. 
 
 Duke. Thou too against me ! 
 
 O. For thy good alone ! 
 
 Nay, mighty lord, what turmoil o'er a tomb !
 
 HAROLD. 141 
 
 Would that the earth were larger, wide enough 
 To find a tomb for all our enemies ! 
 I could have pity to embrace them all. 
 Thus far have mercy ! 
 
 Duke. So, the Church has spoken. 
 
 Thou hast prevailed. Go, find and bury him ! 
 Thou too, De Graville, and Fitzosborne, go, 
 (A gift is nothing if not generous), 
 Wait on her, aid her in her search, and all, 
 All that she needs, provide her ! And, good Sirs, 
 When we too die— and death is near to all ; 
 It overtakes us in the quiet field 
 No less than in the battle's butchery — 
 May love as faithful fitly tend our bones ! 
 Lady, they wait thy bidding. 
 
 {Exeunt Monk, Edith, De Graville, and Fitzosborne) 
 
 Duke. Now, whence we started with the morning star, 
 Thither return we victors, late at eve. 
 Back to your tents ! the wounded on your shields 
 Bear softly ! Glorious are the strokes of war. 
 The common man they lift to be a peer. 
 The peer to prince, the prince to paladin: 
 For everyone may win his spur of gold, 
 And nameless turn to noblest on the field. 
 While on the dead let silence softly sleep, 
 Here where they fell. To-morrow, with the dawn. 
 Ere the new trumpet, herald of fresh fame, 
 Bid us forget old griefs of yesterday, — 
 Our laurel'd triumph twined with cypress-leaves, — 
 We will return with pomp to bury them. 
 Now sound loud clarions, and triumphant tell 
 How William conquered, and how Harold fell. 
 
 [Martial music, during which exeunt omnes.)
 
 142 HAROLD. 
 
 Scene IV. 
 
 (De Graville, Fitzosborne, Monk, Edith, and soldiers, on the 
 
 battlefield.') 
 
 De G. This way ! Let me assist you, Lady ! (She 
 repels him.) 
 
 Monk. She has a guide, a light within. Trouble her 
 not, but foHow ! 
 
 De G. The moon breaks forth, we shall have light for 
 our task. 
 
 Soldier. Here lies Roger de Tancarville, slain in the 
 last charge by the English King. He was a good man 
 and true. 
 
 "znd Soldier. That was a right good blow. See ! The 
 axe struck here. It crushed his skull like a filbert. 
 
 De G. Here is the mound where stood the royal 
 banner. 
 
 Filz. {picking it up). Which one still holds, clasping it 
 to his breast in death. All honour to the brave ! True 
 heart ! gallant deed ! 
 
 Edith. Gurth, Gurth ! {looking at the face) He must be 
 near. And young Haco too ! he was ever at his side, too 
 near him. Oh ! it is coming ! {Sad music.) 
 
 De G. Bring torches hither ! Quick ! Yet more of 
 you! {They form a semicircle.) There! there! {Edith falls 
 with a shriek, swootiing on Harold's body.) 'Tis he ! 
 
 Fitz. {tries to pick her ttp.) Alas, poor lady ! She 
 loved him dearly. 
 
 De G. Nay, leave her ! You would but wake her to 
 fresh sorrow. Well for her if her swoon could be 
 eternal !
 
 HAROLD. 143 
 
 Monk. She would come here. She would have it so 
 {wringing his hands). Nunc dimittas, Domine, nunc 
 dimittas ! 
 
 Edith {ivaking up). What have they done to him ? 
 Oh, Harold ! Harold ! [lifting him up and kissing him 
 tenderly). Cold ! cold ! cold, my love ! Will he not speak 
 to me, answer me, ever again ? Never ! never ! never ! 
 Oh, Father, can you do nothing for him ? Can you not 
 help, plead, kneel, pray for him ? He ever loved you, 
 ever laboured for you. He — (//?^ monk points upward with 
 his upraised cross). Oh ! dead ! dead ! dead ! Never 
 again ! Never again ! {Music.) 
 
 E. And ye did it, ye slew him ! Ye robbers, brigands, 
 murderers, ye massacred the noblest life in England ! (to 
 the Normans). It was you — 
 
 Monk {turning round). Daughter! 
 
 E. Oh, pardon, pardon ! Nay, it was kind cruelty 
 that did it. So long lost to me in another's arms ! and 
 now, in death, in death at last, we are united. Beloved ! 
 Beloved ! See, it grows darker, darker. Hush, who 
 called me .? He ? This, he ? Nay, he was a goodly man. 
 He waits me there. I come, I come. O heavenlit cloud ! 
 O wafting arms ! Found ! and for ever ! {Falls dead upon 
 his body.) 
 
 {Monk kneeling on one side, with outstretched arms : De 
 Graville and Fitzosborne leaning on their swords on 
 the other : torch-bearers behind : in the middle, Edith on 
 Harold's body. .Curtain slowly falls.)
 
 POEMS.
 
 POEM S. 
 
 THE DAY OF JUBILEE, 1887. 
 
 As men look back in after-days 
 
 Where once they trod in shppery ways, 
 
 And find ft-esh theme for love and praise : 
 
 And here, they tell, the snow was deep, 
 And there we venturous dared to creep 
 Along crevasses dark and deep ; 
 
 And there we cut the wall of ice. 
 Or, desperate gamblers throwing dice 
 For life, we clomb the precipice : 
 
 And all the way we went along. 
 With spirits clear and bosoms strong. 
 We often wandered, oft went wrong. 
 
 One step alone, the next, we knew ; 
 Yet still an onward instinct drew 
 Our progress, till, with evening dew. 
 
 As birds at twilight roosting come, 
 We reached our fair Italian home, 
 The slumbering lake, the peaceful dome. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 POEMS. 
 
 So we, who after fifty years 
 
 Look back, remembering hopes and fears, 
 
 Melt into gratitude of tears, 
 
 For all that is ! the might-have-been 
 
 Forgot, in this her triumph-scene 
 
 When England gathers round her Queen ! 
 
 For peace at home, and heard afar, 
 Heard only, threat of distant war, 
 No bloodstain here our fields to mar ! 
 
 For India held with stubborn mood, 
 When, 'gainst the furious Sepoy-flood, 
 Dauntless our little leaguers stood ! 
 
 Or where, on bleak Crimean height. 
 
 Nigh lost, the soldier saved the fight, 
 
 And, when chiefs blundered, brought all right ! 
 
 Or where, 'mid fiend-like dervish-yell. 
 
 Betrayed, deserted, Gordon fell. 
 
 And England shuddered, as at a knell, — ■ 
 
 Too late to save, but not to mourn ; 
 Yet, of one hero left forlorn, 
 Proud to believe a hundred born ! 
 
 For something lost, yet more of gain ; 
 
 For healing arts that soften pain, 
 
 That ease the nerve, and soothe the brain ! 
 
 For Nature conquered, powers of strife 
 Made fruitful, powers with blessing rife ; 
 For arts of beauty sweetening life ! 
 
 M
 
 POEMS. 149 
 
 For knowledge spread, and useful lore 
 Brought to the humblest cottage-door, 
 For kindlier touch 'twixt rich and poor ! 
 
 For wider justice clasping all, 
 And, broken down the parting-wall. 
 One law alike to great and small ! 
 
 For freedom, elsewhere snatched not given, 
 Here working like a wholesome leaven, 
 Raising the heart and opening heaven ! 
 
 For these, for all ; the good acquired, 
 The goal that once our fathers fired, 
 Now starting-point for good desired! 
 
 Whate'er our lot, where'er our way, 
 On this at last her crowning-day. 
 Father, to Thee we kneel and pray: — 
 
 F"or her, long life with glorious close, 
 And, dying, honoured place with those 
 Who lived to lighten human woes ; 
 
 Who set an aureole round the crown, 
 And loftier rise by stooping down 
 Than in low heavens of war-renown ! 
 
 For us, that like our sires of old. 
 Statesman, and soldier, seaman bold, 
 We may her Empire strongly hold ; 
 
 Whether, now reached its farthest scope, 
 Our downward path begin to slope, 
 Or upward chmb with boundless hope,
 
 150 POEMS 
 
 With equal heart for every fate, 
 
 Not cowering crushed by fortune's weight, 
 
 Not with prosperity elate, 
 
 But storm, or sunshine, taking all 
 
 Indifferent, save at duty's call 
 
 To meet the hour, whate'er befall. 
 
 For He Whose scales the nations weigh, 
 The Lord of night, the Lord of day. 
 Breathes, and as flowers we fade away : 
 
 And yet again, with pity stirred, 
 Sweet as at dawn the waking bird, 
 'Rejoice! arise!' his voice is heard. 
 
 So seems it still our wisest trust, 
 To bravely bear what bear we must, 
 And reverent answer, God is just. 
 
 OXFORD TO LONDON. 
 
 O Friend, who labouring for the State, 
 With sittings early, sittings late, 
 
 Dost gnaw thy soul with righteous anger 
 At party violence, party hate : 
 
 To see our Senate's old renown 
 
 'Mid faction's darkening surges drown, 
 
 And many a name of purer splendour 
 Setting, and like a star go down :
 
 POEMS. 151 
 
 To hear the howl, the hiss, the cry, 
 The blatant taunt, the bandied lie, 
 
 Where, saved through laws that guarded order, 
 The friends of anarchy law defy : 
 
 To long — and scarce to deem it sin — 
 To see some Cromwell enter in, 
 
 And, England's mandate stern behind him, 
 For freedom's honour end discord's din. 
 
 Then come and quit the heated hall, 
 The strife, the mock division's call, 
 
 Come, and amid old friends at Oxford, 
 In peace and beauty, forget it all ! 
 
 Come, and where breaks a softer ray 
 On walls with centuries sere and grey, 
 'Mid memories old as Saxon Alfred, 
 Refresh your heart with the heart of May ! 
 
 In meads where couch the slumberous kine 
 With kingcup and with cowslip fine. 
 
 By many a College ivy-mantled, 
 Trellised with rose and eglantine : 
 
 Or lawns like emerald velvet laid 
 'Mid whispering cloisters' dim arcade ; 
 
 And walks by student-dreamer trodden, 
 Leafy and cool in their elm-trees' shade : 
 
 Or, sweeter still, arched boughs between, 
 To trace the twilight-glimmering scene, 
 
 The ghost-like city, steeple-studded. 
 Slumbering grey in a mist of green :
 
 >52 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Or listen while the throstle sings 
 Night's requiem, where, yet adding rings. 
 
 Millennial oaks bemock the aloe, 
 That once a century skyward springs : 
 
 Or follow, still by fancy led, 
 Where bells are ringing overhead ; 
 
 Bells with their ceaseless chime in Oxford, 
 Voices to warn from the peaceful dead. 
 
 Or wander down an ancient street 
 Where mingling ages quaintly meet, 
 
 Pillar and pediment, dome, and gable, 
 Mellowed by time to a picture sweet. 
 
 Or sit where saints have sate, and feel 
 Their calm across our spirits steal. 
 
 Their singleness, their depth of purpose : 
 Our lives seem shallower as we kneel. 
 
 Or stand in many a noble hall. 
 
 Where England's greatest deck the wall, 
 
 Prelate, and statesman, prince, and poet ; 
 Who hath an ear, let him hear their call ! 
 
 Or pace, remote from noisier throng, 
 Some shadowy corridor along, 
 
 And tread on tombs, and waken echoes, 
 Bidding the living be true and strong. 
 
 Or take the oar, and down the stream, 
 Silently floating like a dream, 
 
 People the wave with phantom races. 
 And hear the shout for the victor-team :
 
 POEMS. 153 
 
 Thoughts of a past, a happier time, 
 When selfish aim seemed public crime, 
 
 And feel once more the pulses quicken 
 With generous heat of a genial prime. 
 
 Then, back returning, seek once more 
 The Babel city, the wordy war ; 
 
 Perchance a drooping cause to hearten, 
 Perchance its wavering ranks restore. 
 
 For still, though doubtful seem the fray, 
 And long the struggle and hard the way, 
 
 Yet lawless passion is self-destroying, 
 And coolness, courage, shall win the day. 
 1886. 
 
 OXFORD, PAST AND PRESENT. 
 
 Oh ! the rush of old men with the kindly anxious faces, 
 Bald heads, and white heads, or turning fast to grey ; 
 
 Wandering here and there in the old familiar places, 
 Knowing, alas ! nothing of the Oxford of to-day ! 
 
 Oh, alas! the thronging of so many men, so wrong in 
 Just the very questions where so right they wish 
 to go! 
 Women here corrupted ! All our studies interrupted 
 By their lightness, by their brightness ! Nay, dear 
 friends, it is not so. 
 
 Oxford still is Oxford, as you knew it, as you loved it ; 
 For its great and high ideals, ever earnest strug- 
 gling on ;
 
 1 54 PO E MS. 
 
 Women check our aim ? Nay ! rather they will help 
 to push it farther, 
 And from Oxford's light illumined light their torch, 
 and hand it on. 
 
 In the quiet peaceful village, where the men are rude 
 with tillage, 
 In the factory's din and discord, in the dull and 
 dingy town, 
 They will spread the light of knowledge they (as you 
 did) learnt at College, 
 And with bright refining touches slowly tone the 
 roughness down ; 
 
 Yet their charm the while unaltered ! Still the joy of 
 life domestic, 
 Truer wife, and wiser mother, through the student's 
 added lore ! 
 If, as some one says, a woman knowing little is ' ma- 
 jestic,' 
 Ah ! what will she be in future, when she knows a 
 little more ? 
 
 Then may we too grow more human, through the 
 warm heart of the woman. 
 Read earth's riddle with her insight, see earth's 
 sorrow with her eyne ; 
 Not, as oft, in sidings shunted, or, in darkness grop- 
 ing, stunted 
 Gnomes of power, but useless boring in some old 
 exhausted mine.
 
 POEMS. 155 
 
 Fare j^e well then, dear opponents, (we'll not call you 
 foes,) and ever. 
 Ever, though in mind divided, may our hearts united 
 stay ! 
 Still, believe, we too love Oxford, only use our best 
 endeavour 
 To keep Oxford's touch with England, with the Eng- 
 land of to-day. 
 
 April 29, 1884. 
 
 DUTY. 
 
 Call, and I follow, power unknown ; 
 
 Thy summons has a sovereign tone, 
 
 As trumpet stern in morning air 
 
 To bid to duties fresh repair. 
 
 Or bugle soft, with evening dew. 
 
 To cleanse and fortify anew. 
 
 Call, and I follow; peace or war, 
 
 I care not what thy mandates are : 
 
 In peace, 'tis somewhere bliss to find 
 
 A stay for the unstable mind ; 
 
 And 'tis in power of war alone 
 
 To strike at once the master-tone ; 
 
 To break the spell, to breathe the word 
 
 More trenchant than a warrior's sword ; 
 
 To chase the fear, the doubt to slay, 
 
 And cut the sophistry away ; 
 
 Till out of ease, and evil fire, 
 
 The witchery of low desire, 
 
 Refashioned on a loftier plan. 
 
 Springs from the grave an altered man.
 
 156 POEMS. 
 
 Call, and I follow, power unseen ; • 
 
 Thou dost not ask what I have been, 
 
 How little worthy of the prize. 
 
 How all unmeet for sacrifice ; 
 
 Nor ask I what thou hast in store 
 
 Of wavering balance, less or more ; 
 
 What thrill of pleasure, throb of pain. 
 
 Or nearer loss, or distant gain. 
 
 For, mighty voice, we cannot see 
 
 What is the end of following thee ; 
 
 The laurel-wreath, the triumph-crown, 
 
 The hero's rapture of renown ; 
 
 Or, struck to death beneath the w^all. 
 
 Unseen, unknown, unwept, to fall ; 
 
 Contented yet in dying ear 
 
 The victors' shout aloft to hear, 
 
 And feel, they had not climbed so high 
 
 But o'er our mortal agony. 
 
 Call, and we follow ! Cold and bare. 
 
 How is it that thou art so fair ? 
 
 While softer beauties leave us tame. 
 
 How dost thou set our blood aflame ? 
 
 And call us from the flattering crowd, 
 
 The maddening shout, the plaudit loud, 
 
 The laugh, the lights, the flowers that shine, 
 
 The revel and the untasted wine, 
 
 Alone, apart, with thee to win 
 
 A solitary joy within ; 
 
 The joy, from sources past our ken, 
 
 Of sternest souls and strongest men ? 
 
 O mightiest Voice, 'tis that in thee 
 
 We join a nobler company ;
 
 POEMS. 157 
 
 And with them trust thy call to find 
 
 No empty figment of the mind, 
 
 But echo, in unearthly tone. 
 
 Of lips divine in worlds unknown. 
 
 'Tis that beneath thy poor disguise 
 
 We read a wanderer of the skies, 
 
 Whose broken utterance faint and rare 
 
 Is common-tongue of angels there. 
 
 And once it happened as we went 
 
 Companioned with a sweet content, 
 
 Listening to hear thy music strange, 
 
 Our very being seemed to change ; 
 
 The veil of flesh to fall away, 
 
 The eye to see a purer day ; 
 
 While common brook, and purling springs 
 
 Would babble of eternal things ; 
 
 Another form beside us trod, 
 
 We knew thee. Duty, power of God. 
 
 JOHN BRIGHT. 
 
 Loved at the last ! The great Tribune, the fighter. 
 The name once in England chief discord, chief fear ! 
 
 Now a spell breathing peace, now a link to unite her, 
 From the crown to the cottage, prince, people, and 
 peer ! 
 
 Loved at the last ! Lo, a nation stands mourning 
 Up there in the North, 'neath his cold native skies ; 
 
 No pomp at the tomb, and no hatchment adorning, 
 Plain, simple, the grave where the great Quaker lies.
 
 158 POEMS. 
 
 Ah, there let him rest ! Do our wishes still wander 
 To the Statesman's last home, the great Abbey afar ? 
 
 Nay, think ! Is not something far truer and grander 
 To be even in death what we were, what we are ? 
 
 Free, free as a child, from vainglory, ambition. 
 Though the charm of a senate, the first on the floor, 
 
 Still true to the cause of a life, of a mission, 
 To the cause of the humble, the lowly, the poor. 
 
 There leave him ! So Rotha her Wordsworth is keeping ; 
 
 Sir Walter lies hushed by his Tweed's native song ; 
 And, greatest of all, mighty Shakespeare is sleeping 
 
 Where Avon's still waters flow softly along ; 
 
 To teach us what fame is : the city's ovation ; 
 
 A clamour, a splendour, a bubble's brief gleam ! 
 But the triumph was won far away, the creation 
 
 Of life's simpler moments, by mountain and stream. 
 
 And though there was something they learned, be it 
 granted. 
 From fine nurture's art, not from nature's rude loam, 
 Yet greater by far what they brought, when trans- 
 planted. 
 In the strength of the soil and the breath of the 
 home, 
 
 Pure, racy, and healthful. And therefore returning 
 When the day's work is over, the darkness is nigh. 
 
 They come back like the soldier world-famous, but 
 yearning 
 In the home of their childhood heart-weary to die.
 
 POEMS. 159 
 
 It is over. That voice ! shall we ever forget it ? 
 
 That music, that language, so rich and so strong? 
 Milton's sword ! In his hand the great Puritan set it. 
 
 And taught him to wield it 'gainst falsehood and 
 wrong ; 
 
 Never drawn save in cause of some weakness down- 
 trampled. 
 
 Never sheathed till at eve the great struggle was won ; 
 So he took it, and, armed with a power unexampled, 
 
 He smote right and left till the battle was done. 
 
 It is done. Let him rest ! We seek not to discover 
 The proportion exact, what to praise, what to blame ; 
 
 In a day of great heat, when the burning is over, 
 .Some may have been hurt, have been singed, in the 
 flame : 
 
 But a greatness was there. 'Twill remain a possession 
 For England's far future, to ages unborn : 
 
 And how oft in the dearth, the despair, of the Session, 
 Shall we seek his great presence, his anger, his scorn ! 
 
 Hard-hitter, strong fighter, but stooping to faction— 
 Oh never ! Oft lonely the path that he trod ; 
 
 But he cared not for praise, and he feared not de- 
 traction, 
 Brave soldier, good worker, true servant of God. 
 
 So, loved at the last ! Other love is more flying, 
 In youth a fierce fever, with age cooling fast ; 
 
 But the love of a nation more faithful, undying. 
 Not passion, not fancy, is love to the last.
 
 l6o POEMS. 
 
 And though for a while she may blame, she may 
 chide them, 
 
 Her children, dear Mother, yet when all is past, 
 They may count on her justice, 'tis never denied them, 
 
 If only they loved her, she'll love them at last. 
 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 What Progress in the sum of human years ? 
 I asked of Truth, whose wan and weary eyes. 
 Fixed on the strife of hosts contending, 
 The strife of Good and Evil never-ending, 
 Were clouded oft with tears. 
 Sad as the strain of saddest symphonies 
 The sorrow of her answer filled my ears : — 
 ' Daily men know me more, and love me less ; 
 Time was, I flashed upon the 3^oung world's sight. 
 And drew all hearts with wonder and delight, 
 
 In my first loveliness. 
 Then a great promise o'er the distance hung, 
 That would make all things happy, all things young ; 
 Redeem the curse, relieve the pain. 
 The great world's misery heal again : 
 So was it echoed on from tongue to tongue.' 
 ' And then ? ' I asked. She answered, ' As a star 
 Glad seers saw and hailed me from afar : 
 And suddenly a glory was revealed 
 
 To simple shepherds in the field, 
 Who saw a light in heaven, and lo ! 
 With angel-forms the dark was all aglow,
 
 POEMS. i6l 
 
 While through the spheres a sacred music rung; 
 
 " Peace and goodwill ! " O blessed word ! 
 " To you is born a Saviour, Christ the Lord ; 
 
 More strong than blood, 
 
 That tie of brotherhood, 
 He comes to dwell his brothers here among : 
 
 Of David's stem. 
 
 The rose of Bethlehem, 
 Goodwill and peace ! " To all the promise sung.' 
 'And now?' I asked. No answer! 'Now?' She 
 
 turned, 
 And all her cheek one fire of anger burned ; 
 She felt the strong weight of the chain she spurned. 
 ' Listen,' she cried. I heard a distant roar. 
 Like starving outcasts on a hungry shore. 
 Rise from a mighty city evermore. 
 And then anon, piercing that outer din. 
 Rose up the shriek of women mad with gin. 
 And hollow laugh of girls who sold their sin. 
 And as with age, gaunt on its mother's knee. 
 The babe cried out for bread, no bread had she ; 
 Maddened she cursed her womb's fertility. 
 ' Listen again !' She cried, and then hard by. 
 The rich man's music drowned that ' bitter cry,' 
 And harp and viol charmed the wintry sky. 
 
 O Christ, eternal brother. 
 
 Once more this day is thine ; 
 Once more to one another 
 
 Our stony hearts incline ! 
 * Peace and goodwill ? ' And can it be 
 That this is all we learnt of Thee : — 
 M
 
 ]62 POEMS. 
 
 Who seemedst in those gracious years 
 To staunch the source of human tears ;— 
 This splendour to despair alhed, 
 A palace here, there, at its side, 
 Those dens of misery ? 
 
 Oh ! rather come the shocks that nations feel ! 
 
 Come, Revolution, with the armed heel ! 
 
 Come Attila, with all thy Vandal crew ! 
 Tread into dust our gold ! 
 Respect not aught that's old! 
 Cast in a nobler mould 
 
 Our state renew ! 
 
 I turned, and looked to Truth, but Truth had fled ; 
 
 Only there lingered on a voice, that said. 
 
 In solemn music, though in mournful tones. 
 
 Like wasted brook that murmurs o'er its stones, 
 
 Sad-echoing still : 
 ' How little yet ye know the word 
 On that first dawn of Christmas heard, 
 The only power to right the wrong. 
 To fire the cold, and tame the strong. 
 To bring the pride of greatness down, 
 And mix the cottage with the crown, 
 The grand old glorious angel-song. 
 
 Peace and goodwill ! ' 
 
 Christmas, 1883.
 
 POEMS. l6o^ 
 
 IN THE BEGINNING. 
 
 August, year unknown ; time, Six o'clock in the 
 
 morning ; 
 Sate in a tree an Ape ; irrational ; eating an apple, 
 Raw ; no cook as yet, no house, no shred of a garment ; 
 Soul, a blank ; taste, nil ; a thumb but slowly beginning ; 
 Warranted wholly an Ape, a great Jack-ape of the forest, 
 Swinging with tail on bough ; (O tail, oh ! why have 
 
 we lost it ? 
 Better to swing on tail than Grace's skill at the 
 
 wickets !) 
 Jabbering, hairy, grim, arboreal wholly in habits. 
 So he sate on till Noon, when, hushed in slumber 
 
 around him, 
 Everything lay dead ; all save the murmuring insect, 
 Whose small voice still spake, proclaiming silence. 
 
 Awaking 
 Suddenly then he rose, and thinking scorn of his fellows 
 Longed to be quit of them, all, his Apess specially. 
 
 She, dear. 
 Knew no dream, no vision ; her Apelet playing about her 
 All her thought, her care ! At Four, he finally left her, 
 Went to live by himself, but felt a pang — 'twas a 
 
 Conscience 
 Budding, in germ ; yet went ; then stopped to bathe in 
 
 a fountain. 
 Wow ! What an ugly phiz ! He saw, and shuddered ; 
 
 a Ruskin 
 Stirred in his breast. Taste born !— the seed of a 
 
 mighty Ideal, 
 
 M 2
 
 164 POEMS. 
 
 Raffaelesque, Titianic ! Erect he strode through the 
 
 jungle, 
 Cleaving his way with a stick ; — Art's rise ! An imple- 
 ment maker, 
 Parent of Armstrong guns, steam-rams, et caetera I 
 
 Still on 
 Plucking the fruits he went ; felt pain, no matter the 
 
 region ! 
 Said, it was not the apple, or crab, or cranberry; no ! nor 
 Even the sloe ; 'twas a chill. He caught it there in 
 
 the fountain, 
 Bathing, still in a heat, the water cold o' the coldest. 
 Glorious Ape ! — Logician ! not yet a perfect Induction, 
 But good step that way, as good as many among us ! 
 (Bacon not yet come, but coming a good time after. 
 Million years, or so ! What 's Time ? A drop in the 
 
 bucket.) 
 So he went on till Eve, when, reached the edge o' the 
 
 forest, 
 Just where the opening paths sloped westward; then 
 
 i' the gloaming. 
 Mounting a rising knoll, he saw the sun in his glory 
 Set over flood and fell ; and joining, as in embraces, — 
 Like Ixion of old, the cloudland wedding the Titan, — 
 Earth to heaven draw near : he saw, and suddenly 
 
 trembled ; 
 Sudden his Apehood shrank as a robe, and fell from 
 
 off him, 
 Like to the angel- wings that burst their chrysalis-casing ; 
 Sudden a soul was born. He owned a Greater above 
 
 him, 
 Near him, round him, in him, far away in the splendour,
 
 POEMS. 165 
 
 Having a right to rule, and he a duty to serve It, 
 Way not always clear, but duty ever abiding. 
 And this happened at Eight, at Eight p.m. precisely 
 On that August day ; and, if you cannot believe it, 
 Go to your Darwin ; read, how an Ape grew man, and 
 
 a moment. 
 Just one tick of the clock, though clocks not yet in- 
 vented. 
 Was when his soul was not, another, his soul was 
 
 quickened. 
 And this must be true, or else — unhappy dilemma — 
 Men and monkeys both have souls, or flourish without 
 
 them. 
 So farewell, Ape-man ! Lo we, your progeny, greet you ; 
 Thank you much for a soul, and may we never forget it ! 
 
 NOBODY AND SOMEBODY. 
 
 Nobody. 
 Left there, nobody's daughter. 
 
 Child of disgrace and shame — 
 Nobody ever taught her 
 
 A mother's sweet saving name : 
 
 Nobody ever caring 
 
 Whether she stood or fell. 
 And men (are they men ?) ensnaring 
 
 With the arts and the gold of Hell! 
 
 Stitching with ceaseless labour, 
 To earn her pitiful bread ; 
 
 Begging a crust of a neighbour, 
 And getting a curse instead !
 
 1 66 FOE MS. 
 
 All through the long hot summer, 
 All through the cold dark time, 
 
 With fingers, that numb and number 
 Grow white as the frost's white rime. 
 
 Nobody ever conceiving 
 
 The throb of that warm young life, 
 Nobody ever believing 
 
 The strain of that terrible strife ! 
 
 Nobody kind words pouring 
 In that orphan heart's sad ear; 
 
 But all of us, all, ignoring 
 What lies at our door so near ! 
 
 O sister! down in the alley. 
 Pale, with the downcast eye. 
 
 Dark and drear is the valley, 
 
 But the stars shine forth on high. 
 
 Nobody here may love thee, 
 Or care if thou stand or fall ; 
 
 But the great good God above thee. 
 He knows, and He cares for all. 
 
 Somebody. 
 
 Somewhere down in the meadows. 
 Where the river and rivulet meet, 
 
 Watching the April shadows 
 Over the hillside fleet.
 
 POEMS. 167 
 
 Somebody bending near her, 
 
 Noble in face and form ; 
 And the Cross of the gallant wearer 
 
 Was won in the battle's storm. 
 
 Somewhere at altar kneeling, 
 Bride, with her maidens round ; 
 
 While the great organ, pealing, 
 Fills all the Abbey with sound : 
 
 Somebody's hand her's holding, 
 Pledging a life for a life ; 
 
 Somebody's arm enfolding, 
 Calling her ' Wife, dear wife ! ' 
 
 Somewhere, in hall or garden, 
 Mother and child, the Heir ! 
 
 Nothing to fret or harden, 
 Nothing to cause one care ! 
 
 Love all her life caressing, 
 Riches, a boundless store; 
 
 Crown upon crown of blessing ! 
 What can she ask for more ? 
 
 O lady ! on high uplifted, 
 
 Lacking no earth-known thing, 
 
 Noble, and nobly-gifted, 
 Yet has thy lot one sting : 
 
 This, that thy poor pale sister 
 Pines in yon alley unseen ; 
 
 And thou canst not assist her, 
 Such is the gulf between.
 
 l68 POEMS. 
 
 TO AN OPTIMIST. 
 
 Dim eyes, clear-sighted only for the distance, 
 Fond fancy poring on those hills of blue, 
 
 Blamest thou me, bent only on resistance 
 To ills of nearer view ? 
 
 You were a painter born, and I a fighter ; 
 
 You to love beauty, I to set wrong right ; 
 You, where a thing is bright, to paint it brighter, 
 
 I to say, ' Black 's not white.' 
 
 Had you been saved of old when heaven's great ruin 
 Crashed down in flood, and Hope itself looked dark. 
 
 You had admired ' the good that rain was doing,' 
 And praised ' the accommodation of the Ark.' 
 
 You see but cherubs where, in misery bundled. 
 Poor children rot unheeded in a mews ; 
 
 You note the rainbow, where a mop is trundled 
 With rinsings from the stews. 
 
 I have the fatal fault to see too clearly 
 Blight in the bloom, and ill in all, to spy ; 
 
 Believing truth itself is bought too dearly, 
 If purchased with a lie. 
 
 So fail I, friend, to see earth as you see it, 
 All sunshine, angels bursting from the blue ; 
 
 Though with good health and money, I agree, it 
 May, while they both last, do. 
 
 What then our difference ? This ! As cunning jugglers 
 Who force the court-card, will not yield the plain, 
 
 You quote the one blest, not the hopeless strugglers, 
 The millions in their pain.
 
 POEMS. 169 
 
 I too see Good, but do not pause to praise it ; 
 
 Leave opiate praise, love rather tonic blame ; 
 ' Improveable ' I hold the world ; to raise it, 
 
 Man's only lawful aim. 
 
 Yet, oh ! thy pardon. Heaven, if oft-times grumbling 
 I murmur o'er lost harvests' wasted toil : 
 
 I know it must be ; yet it is so humbling. 
 That best things soonest spoil. 
 
 CHRISTMAS, 1885. 
 
 Christ's star is bright, and yet our hearts are holden 
 With dim forebodings, ghosts of gathering fear ; 
 
 It is not as in days of childhood olden 
 When Christmas seemed all cheer. 
 
 Then thought we not of India, Church, or Ireland, 
 Of Parnell-followers, or of party-wiles ; 
 
 But played at forfeits round the enchanted fireland, 
 And, losing, paid in smiles. 
 
 A naughty child was then put in the corner : 
 Ah ! Mr. Speaker, could you put them now ! 
 
 The shameless drone, the obstructive, and the scorner, 
 With all the Irish row. 
 
 Life has moved onward, Grace is now a matron, 
 Comely and prim, with children half-a-score ; 
 
 While Jack of twenty charities is patron, 
 M.P., and worse— a bore.
 
 I70 POEMS. 
 
 Things must move onward. ' All the world 's a garden ' 
 (As some one said) ; fresh flowers old places fill ; 
 
 And change must come, from Hatfield or from Hawarden, 
 Think, say we, what we will. 
 
 So let it come, but temperate, not in fury, 
 Not as from Birmingham our sages bawl ; 
 
 But, like the wisdom of a British jury, 
 Sober, and safe, and— small. 
 
 Then, slowly onward ! 'Twill need cautious steering : 
 Yet, statesmen, hating rashness, loathe delay ! 
 
 Courage ! in God's name forward, nothing fearing ! 
 England will follow if you lead the way. 
 
 And, O pale star of Christ the East adorning, 
 Guide us, late wanderers, on to peace and rest ! 
 
 Still through the night of time comes in the morning, 
 And, though dark-shadowed, still the new is best. 
 
 ET QUI SIB I MORTEM. 
 
 1. 
 
 Judge not! 'Tis past thy ken; 
 
 Strangely the web of destiny is ordered ; 
 In highest-natured men 
 
 The loftiest wit with depths of madness bordered. 
 
 Judge not ! The taper's light 
 
 Is too small measure for volcanoes burning ; 
 This constant, feebly bright, 
 
 That sudden, with wild flame, all barriers spurning.
 
 POEMS. 171 
 
 Judge not ! Beyond the grave 
 
 We shall know better the immense great trial ; 
 This man submits, a slave ; 
 
 The other fights, and dies, in fierce denial. 
 
 But he who views the strife 
 
 Calm from without, more wise than those within it, 
 Counts the long 'Yes' of life. 
 
 Not the one ' No,' the single faithless minute. 
 
 2. 
 
 One too many in life ! 
 
 And the ways of life grown dim ! 
 So clear to the strong, who can hustle along, 
 
 So tangled, and dark, to him ! 
 
 One too many in life ! 
 
 And the places all seem filled : 
 No room for the wit that is feebly-lit ! 
 
 No place for the weakly-willed ! 
 
 One too many in life ! 
 
 And the struggle must have an end ; 
 For a body in pain may grow well again, 
 
 But a broken heart how mend ? 
 
 So, ' One too many in life ! ' 
 
 And a sigh as he quits the scene : 
 And it is but a plunge, and Death's cold spunge 
 
 Wipes out where his place hath been.
 
 172 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 LIVE AND LET BE I 
 
 Live and let be ! The Alpine heaven is bright, 
 Tired cloudlets sleep along yon azure sea ; 
 
 Soft airs steal by, and whisper, faint and light, 
 Live and let be ! 
 
 Live and let be ! Is it not well to rest 
 
 Sometimes from labour? live as do the flowers? 
 
 Bask in the sunshine? lie on Nature's breast, 
 Not counting hours? 
 
 Not heeding aught, but on the pale worn cheek 
 To feel the warm breath of the murmuring pine, 
 
 And watch on many a rose-flushed hoary peak 
 Heaven's glory shine ? 
 
 Is it not well? Sweet, too, at wondering eve 
 
 To list the melody of tinkling bells, 
 And hear old echo in the distance weave 
 
 Endless farewells ! 
 
 Night, too, hath here her music deep and strong 
 Of cataracts, solemn as an ancient psalm, 
 
 Whence the soul's fever, born in heat and throng. 
 Grows cool and calm. 
 
 Live and let be ! It will be time enough 
 Hereafter to resume the great world's care. 
 
 When autumn skies are troubled, winds are rough, 
 And trees are bare. 
 
 Then to renew the fight, the cause rewaken. 
 Dare all the strife, the burden, and the pain, 
 
 Rally the weak ; the downcast, the forsaken. 
 Lift up again.
 
 POEMS. 173 
 
 And what thou doest then, in Peace begotten, 
 
 Shall show like Peace, her looks and tones recall, 
 
 And, all the frail and faulty Past forgotten, 
 Bring good to all. 
 
 Till then let nothing past or future vex 
 The untrammell'd soul, 'mid Nature's freedom free. 
 
 From thoughts that darken, questions that perplex, 
 Live and let be ! 
 
 THE SWALLOWS. 
 
 O Mother, will the swallows never come ? 
 
 Feel my cheek, 'tis hot and burning, 
 
 And my heart is sick with yearning, 
 But I'm always well as soon as swallows come. 
 
 They brought me in a primrose yesterday : 
 
 And when primroses are blowing, 
 
 Then I know that winter 's going ; 
 And the swallows cannot then be far away. 
 
 Hark, my old thrush in the garden singing clear ! 
 
 How I love his note to follow ! 
 
 But the swallow, O the swallow, 
 Bringing summer with him, summer, is more dear. 
 
 And the lamb's bleat ! could I see them once again, 
 
 With their innocent sweet faces. 
 
 And their friskings, and their races ! 
 Once I used — but now I cannot stir from pain.
 
 174 POEMS. 
 
 Mother, lift me, all this side is growing numb : 
 Oh, how dark the room is ! Fold me 
 To your bosom, tighter hold me ! 
 
 Or I shall be gone before the swallows come. 
 
 And the swallows came again across the wave ; 
 
 And the sky was soft and tender, 
 
 With a gleam of rainbow splendour. 
 As they laid their little darling in the grave. 
 
 And they often watch the swallows by her tomb ; 
 And they strain to think, but straining 
 Cannot still the heart's complaining ; 
 
 ' She is better there where swallows never come.' 
 
 And they carved the bird she loved upon her stone 
 
 Joyous guest of summer darting 
 
 Hither, thither, then departing 
 In a night to joys of other worlds unknown. 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Loss. 
 
 Something is gone : 
 I know it by this pain : 
 
 But yesterday I had it ; 
 
 To-morrow, though 1 bade it, ^ 
 It would not come again. 
 
 Something is gone : 
 
 What shall we that thing call 1 
 A touch, a tone, that thrilled me 
 A hidden joy that filled me? 
 
 Say that is all.
 
 POEMS. 175 
 
 And now 'tis gone, 
 
 Lightly as first it came ; 
 The sky a little colder, 
 The heart a little older, 
 
 All else the same. 
 
 All else the same ? 
 
 O death, all-covering sea, 
 Come with thy floods, and drown me ! 
 That thing I sought to crown me 
 
 Was all the world to me. 
 
 Angels look on : 
 
 They too, as we, have striven : 
 It was not by despairing, 
 It was not by not caring, 
 
 They conquered heaven. 
 
 Gain. 
 
 Something is come: 
 
 I felt it yestereve : 
 The lark on high was singing. 
 The happy church-bells ringing ; 
 
 How could I grieve ? 
 
 I could not grieve : 
 An old man weary lay ; 
 
 I lifted up his burden, 
 
 He blessed me, and in guerdon 
 Mine slipped away. 
 
 It slipped away : 
 
 There came a child in pain ; 
 I soothed it, and soon after 
 A burst of April laughter 
 
 Followed the rain.
 
 176 POEMS. 
 
 How could I grieve ? 
 
 O blessed human heart ! 
 That in the joy of giving 
 Hast found the bliss of living, 
 
 Up, play thy part ! 
 
 Strive, and not rest ! 
 
 Rest here below is none, 
 Beneath a sky o'erarching 
 The hosts of men are marching : 
 
 Angels look on. 
 
 Yet not in dark, 
 
 Nor wholly sad thy way ; 
 But here in sunny meadows, 
 There overcast with shadows ; 
 
 So runs our day. 
 
 MELIORA PRIOR A. 
 
 There sits a thrush in my garden, 
 And sings on the topmost spray ; 
 
 And its song is ever the loudest. 
 In the hush at the close of day. 
 
 There lies a child in a bedroom, 
 Whitegowned in a cot snow-white ; 
 
 And her laugh is ever the gayest 
 In the dusk, at the fall of night. 
 
 My beautiful child in her chamber, 
 My beautiful bird on the tree. 
 
 Whence comes it, ye twin blithe spirits, 
 Whence comes it, that burst of glee .''
 
 POEMS. 177 
 
 Is it thanks for the day just over, 
 
 No stain in the Past to rue ? 
 Or the joy of the Hving Present ? 
 
 Ah ! would I could be like you ! 
 
 Like you with a childlike nature 
 
 (For the bird and the child are one), 
 
 Like you, on a joy remembered 
 To sleep when the day is done ! 
 
 In a moment the thrush has ended ; 
 
 In a moment the child lies down ; 
 In a moment has sleep descended. 
 
 And covered them both, God's own. 
 
 But I lie, and toss on my pillow; 
 
 I lie there the whole night Ions:; 
 And I hear the hour from the distant tower 
 
 Toll forth like a doleful song. 
 
 Ah me, for the child's free spirit ! 
 
 Ah me, for the bird's gay tone ! 
 Gifts greater we men inherit, 
 
 But the light free heart has flown. 
 
 'EASY DOES IT.' 
 
 Do not hurry, do not flurry ! 
 Nothing good is got by worry. 
 Bide the hour to make the spring ! 
 Take life easy, that 's the thing. 
 
 Do not trouble, do not trouble ; 
 Heavy hearts make toiling double. 
 Groans the back with loaded pain? 
 Laugh, and 'twill grow light again. 
 
 N
 
 IjH FOEMS. 
 
 Do not sorrow, do not sorrow ! 
 
 Grief to-day is joy to-morrow. 
 
 Life flows smoothest after fears ; 
 
 Eyes shine brightest washed with tears. 
 
 Hark the children, hark the voices ! 
 Somewhere everything rejoices. 
 Blasts without of winter ring, 
 Yet inward mirth makes endless spring, 
 
 Soon from elms will rooks be cawing, 
 Young lambs leaping, old folk thawing : 
 Soon with a sunny April dawn 
 Will daisies bright bedeck the lawn. 
 
 Forward then to victory straining, 
 Forward as brave men uncomplaining ! 
 Though cloud and tempest wrap the sky, 
 Yet wakes behind the Eternal eye, 
 
 Watching, wondering, yearning, knowing 
 Whence the stream, and where 'tis going. 
 Seems all mystery ? By-and-by 
 He will speak, and tell us, Why. 
 
 IN ARCADY. 
 
 A LITTLE breath from spray to spray, 
 That wanders with a purposed quiet, 
 
 As though it were so calm a day, 
 To shock it were unholy riot. 
 
 A little cloudlet in the sky. 
 
 That melts, and then its shape renewing, 
 Then melts again, as though on high 
 
 'Twere holiday, and nothing doing ;
 
 POEMS. 
 
 179 
 
 A hum of bee, a little song 
 
 Of bird in praise of endless summer, 
 
 That will not break the stillness long, 
 But leaves it to a chance new-comer ; 
 
 A little sound of rippling stream 
 
 Now heard, now hushed, its deep leaves under ; 
 Like murmurs of an infant's dream 
 
 That barely part sweet lips asunder ; 
 
 And Ocean's face for many a mile 
 
 In calm, with scarce a wavelet breaking, 
 
 As sleeping eyelids ope awhile. 
 Then close again without awaking; — 
 
 All say 'tis noon, and Silence sleeps 
 With Beauty. Hence, and leave her sleeping. 
 
 Lulled by the tiny fall that leaps 
 Beside her there in silver leaping. 
 
 Noon in the South ! a perfect thing 
 Of love, and light, and warmth, and colour 
 
 That, drowsy as a vampire's wing, 
 
 Float round the soul in sloth to lull her. 
 
 Noon in the South ! Then haste, away, 
 Dear Soul, away, we may not tarry ! 
 
 Enough, if hence for many a day 
 Some sunshine of the heart we carry. 
 
 Enough, if 'mid our mist, and snow. 
 We may in darker hours remember. 
 
 The bliss, the warmth, the southern glow, 
 That mingled July with December. 
 
 N 2
 
 l8o POEMS. 
 
 But now a harp of loftier tone 
 
 I hear resound to Dorian measure, 
 
 Say, Arcady is rest alone. 
 
 But toil is strung to nobler pleasure. 
 
 Say, Arcady is fair and fine, 
 
 Where Pan is lord of Man and Nature ; 
 But 'neath his face and form divine 
 
 Lurks cloven hoof of Faun and Satyr. 
 
 And sadness sits in every eye, 
 And cynic youth is old at twenty ; 
 
 Who looks for aught in Arcady 
 But languid ease and '■far niente' 'i 
 
 Then hence away, and Northward ho ! 
 
 Where souls and limbs of men are stronger 
 But, O ye powers of frost and snow. 
 
 Would holidays were somewhat longer ! 
 
 A SPRIG OF HOLLY. 
 
 I FOUND it, a sprig of holly, 
 
 It had fallen from an unknown hand. 
 In the home of the pine and myrtle, 
 
 Far off in this Southern land. 
 
 And I know not whose hand had cast it. 
 
 Or careless, or rude with scorn, 
 Whether pleased with a brighter berry, 
 
 Or pricked with its guard of thorn. 
 
 Hut there it lay in the pathway, 
 Poor sprig with its berries three. 
 
 Like a waif or a stray from England, 
 And it seemed a message to me.
 
 POEMS. l8l 
 
 Then sudden there flashed a vision 
 
 Of a Christmas far away ; 
 Of a firehght shed on a curtain red, 
 
 And the shouts of the children at play. 
 
 And a fir-tree shone in the centre, 
 
 And around it a wondering ring, 
 Where the Snow-King kisses the Fairy, 
 
 And the Fairy frowns at the King. 
 
 And the dances ! the valse ! the polka ! 
 
 And Sir Roger must wait his turn ; 
 For, with breath all a-flame, the great Snapdragon came, 
 
 And how blue all the tapers burn I 
 
 And awe is on childish faces, 
 
 And as in all things below. 
 You must first begin, if you wish to win, 
 
 To suffer ; a fact we know. 
 
 So the Snow-King puffs at his fingers. 
 
 And the Fairy pities his pain, 
 And, had he now kissed her instead of his blister, 
 
 She would not have frowned again. 
 
 And so through the long, bright evening, 
 
 Until all the games are played. 
 And child-vows given (smile on them. Heaven !) 
 
 Forgotten as soon as made. 
 
 For there must be kissing and cooing 
 Of birds in the nest at play, 
 
 As there must be wedding and wooing 
 Of birds full grown, some day.
 
 1 82 POEMS. 
 
 And little Alice is sleeping, 
 
 Wide-mouthed in a wide arm-chair, 
 
 One fat round arm fast keeping 
 That idol with flaxen hair. 
 
 When— hark ! Is it 'ten' there striking? 
 
 And look! Do the lights burn low? 
 Then sudden is heard the terrible word, 
 
 Away! it is time to go. 
 
 And I started, and lo ! the holly 
 
 Lay bright in the pathway there, 
 With the dark-hued sheen of its prickl}' green 
 
 Guarding its fruitage fair. 
 
 And I love it, my sprig of holl}^ 
 
 Though it boast but its berries three ; 
 
 For whatever it seem to others, 
 It was surely a message to me. 
 
 And dear as the mountains round me, 
 
 And dells where the waters run, 
 And the peaks and pines, where for ever shines 
 
 The glow of a summer sun. 
 
 No mist in the soft-toned valley, 
 
 No wind in the unstirred tree, 
 No stain on the cloudless ether. 
 
 No wave on the breathless sea ! 
 
 Yet dearer to me that vision 
 
 Of home, and of Christmas bells ! 
 And it came to me all at the holl^-'s call. 
 
 In the heart of the Esterelles.
 
 POEMS. 183 
 
 SONNETS. 
 TOUJOURS DE UAUDACE. 
 Once in our lives we know what men we are : 
 In common hours we live as common men, 
 Our valour not true valour; and a star 
 Shines not more distant than our Now, and Then. 
 Anon, as winds that shake a stagnant deep, 
 Comes there awakening. On some glorious day 
 Dull custom drops from off us like a sleep. 
 And fear, a horrid nightmare, slinks away : 
 And we are free, and freedom is a power 
 Of joy, of inspiration, Only dare, 
 Dare strongly ! When it comes, the da)^ the hour, 
 Dela}' not ! Coming dangers throng the air : 
 Before us lie the paths of light or gloom, 
 A greater England, or decay and doom. 
 
 Nat /ua Tov'i. 
 When the Athenian orator of yore 
 Would lift his country to its earlier height. 
 By Marathon and Salamis he swore, 
 And pointed to their glories, full in sight. 
 So by Trafalgar, and by Waterloo, 
 Let us too swear, we will not yield one inch 
 For sloth, or weakness. We have work to do 
 Greater with greater empire. Shall we flinch 
 Degenerate? Nay, with strong embattled host 
 Hold we our land, with fleets our subject seas! 
 Mistrust the very breakers round our coast, 
 Lest they be leagued to admit our enemies ! 
 We have in us the blood of Nelson's men : 
 Has it grown cold ? 'Twas liquid lava then.
 
 184 POEMS. 
 
 'HE PURGETH IT.' 
 Nations need sometime suffering : when our mood 
 Is soft, emasculate, and fearing pain ; 
 When indolence and torpor chill the blood, 
 And insolence and bluster fire the brain ; 
 When, puny sons of mighty sires, we deem 
 Our father's stature greater than our own. 
 We cannot wear their armour, and we dream 
 Heroic dreams, the life heroic flown : 
 Then oh! come loss, come suffering— only shame 
 Be absent ! come, and to our souls discover. 
 Ere the reluctant day of grace be over, 
 Lost manhood's greatness, now inert and tame ! 
 Virtue's foundation strong is to be bold ; 
 The nobler metal iron is, not gold. 
 
 A YEAR OF SILENCE. 
 
 Oh, lor a 3'ear of silence ! Could we go 
 
 Each to our quiet desk, or house, or field. 
 
 And cease our babbling ; plough, and reap, and sow ; 
 
 And read old books, and ransack treasure sealed 
 
 Of learning, writ in ages long ago ! 
 
 Then let some strong-souled Gordon take the field 
 
 Of action ; while the masters, ' they who know,' 
 
 Would ravage Time, its honeyed stores to yield ! 
 
 That were as dreamland ! Pulpit, senate, mart. 
 
 Suddenly silent ; only nature heard 
 
 With her still music, or her prophet's word ! 
 
 The while the noisy blusterer would depart 
 
 Where men talk least, his year of grace to spend, 
 
 To learn his ignorance and his manners mend ! 
 
 (' In some of the United States, the local Congress does not 
 meet every j'ear.' — Bryce.)
 
 POEMS. 1 8.5 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 Sorrow came to him with a pleading face ; 
 
 He would not rise and bid her enter in ; 
 
 She seemed to claim in him too large a space, 
 
 And he was careless, full of mirth and sin : 
 
 So passed she onward. Then it chanced one day, 
 
 When Autumn winds in woods were making moan, 
 
 Again did gentle Sorrow fare that way, 
 
 And heard him mourning, for his love had flown. 
 
 So once again she sought him. Reckless, rude, 
 
 He bade her enter. Then with stately mien. 
 
 She came, she took possession like a queen. 
 
 And seemed not sorrow, but a joy subdued ; 
 
 Bringing a shadow, yet, as shadows are, 
 
 A blessing cast from some great Light afar. 
 
 SWEET SORROW. 
 
 Who hath not loved her who hath ever tried her? 
 Who doth not owe her more of joy than tears ? 
 Who doth not grudge the hours he hath denied her, 
 The careless hours, the laugliter-loving years .' 
 Who doth not know his life more worth the living, 
 Now she hath blessed it ; now her teacher Pain 
 Hath purged his vision, and with gracious giving 
 Restored it cleansed to purer sight again ? 
 Sorrow, sweet Sorrow ! Now at length 'tis over. 
 The storm, the fret, the fever — and 'tis well, 
 Well, if within we can our good discover 
 In peace ; we thought it once in strife to dwell. 
 In storm, in fret, in fever. But 'tis past : 
 The battered swimmer finds sure ground at last.
 
 ]86 POEMS. 
 
 A SONG OF BATTLE. 
 
 Charge, bayonets, charge ! but gently, not too wildly ! 
 
 For fear they ' buckle in,' prod not too hard ! 
 Out, sabres, out ! But, mind you, use them mildly ! 
 
 Perhaps they're safer only kept on guard. 
 
 Hold your revolvers read}'^ ! If some barrels 
 
 (Say two or three) should not discharge their ball. 
 
 There'll be some Arabs left for future quarrels, 
 A generous army would not kill them all. 
 
 On, then, remembering that your arms are brittle ! 
 
 ' England expects' her soldiers not to waste: 
 For though, 'tis true, they cost the country little, 
 
 Yet, if they're broken, the}^ must be replaced. 
 
 On, then, brave Atkins, stalwart, strong and fiery ! 
 
 Whoever blunders, you are always game : 
 And then a Parliamentary inquiry 
 
 Will show, some years hence, who it was to blame. 
 
 RELIGIO ACADEMICI. 
 I. 
 
 What, you have found Him not in the world-wide dome 
 of St. Peter's, 
 Not in the cross-crowned height, not in the Cata- 
 combs' cell ? 
 Not in Ravenna mosaic, or air-built glory of Milan ? 
 
 Not in the sun-flushed Alp, rose of the morning, afar? 
 ' Ah ! not there ! Then eastward ! Away, where m^'s- 
 tery lingers, 
 Far over ancient waves on to the home of the sun !
 
 POEMS. 187 
 
 Borne upon ardent feet with the eager heart of the 
 pilgrim, 
 There to the garden of God, there to the cradle of all ! 
 Surely, He must be there. On high, lo ! Sinai thunders 
 Lonely and awful, bare, save for the cloud on its brow. 
 Surely I there must find Him ; His voice shall speak, 
 and His footprints 
 Start from the furrowy rock, shine on the billowj^ sand. 
 Still not there ! still hidden ! nor where, with dearer 
 devotion, 
 Memory tracks the scene Saints and Apostles have 
 trod ; 
 Not on Jerusalem heights, nor where Gethsemane 
 slumbers. 
 Shadowy, mystic, pale, lit with the Passover moon. 
 Vain, all vain ! I found not. A dream He floated be- 
 fore me, 
 Nearer by night ; with dawn, ghostly, He faded away. 
 Gone ! and to worldly eyes in the shrine of His earthly 
 abiding 
 Galilee was but a lake ; Nazareth only a name. 
 Only a name ! and nothing availed it to waken the 
 echoes, 
 There where the Holiest dwelt, reading the story 
 divine. 
 Beauty may linger still on the snow-capped summit of 
 Hermon, 
 Beauty, a life-giving stream, creep over valley and 
 plain ; 
 Beauty may shine in the lily, or blush in the dark 
 oleander ; 
 Bethlehem maids go by smiling and sweet as of yore ;
 
 l88 POEMS. 
 
 But the old faith was gone : the sky hung brazen above 
 me, 
 Empty and blank : hope dead : Deity gone from it all. 
 Gone as a vision of light when a dreamer wakes, or a 
 phantom 
 Seen in the clouds, our own image reflected afar. 
 Gone ; nothing left but Beauty ! in Dresden gallery 
 roaming 
 Still may I stand, still gaze rapt on Madonna and 
 Child: 
 Still with the wondering crowd in the gorgeous Vatican 
 chamber 
 Draw a deep breath, as I watch Christ, the Trans- 
 figured, on high ; 
 Still in the spiritual world, in the cloudland region of 
 fancy, 
 Joy, as I see great shapes, ghosts of the Future, go b}^ : 
 Still with an open heart, in the grand Pantheon of 
 Nature, 
 Hj'mn the great myster}^, kneel as to a Goddess su- 
 preme. 
 Still, with Beethoven, thrill as the storm-tost passion of 
 music 
 Sinks like a wildered dove to a Nirvana of rest : 
 Nothing remains but Beauty.' He said, and wearily 
 sighing, 
 Sat upon Shotover stile, gazing on Oxford below. 
 Minaret-crowned St. Mary's, and Magdalen Tower, and 
 Merton, 
 Far-off jewels of light, fringed with a circle of shade, 
 Set in the shining floods. Oh ! not alone in the sun- 
 shine
 
 POEMS. 189 
 
 Fair ! yet fairer the faith, glory of men who believed, 
 Mother of noble works, which built them there in the 
 foretime, 
 Dreaming of God ; then woke, strong to a labour 
 divine. 
 Strong with a magical skill, a noble army of builders, 
 Early afoot, with prayer carving their vision in stone, 
 Flower of the field, and lily, and leaf, and traceried 
 window, 
 Endless vanishing lines, as when a forest is bare ! 
 As when a forest is clothed, that arch ! that forest of 
 arches, 
 Mystical, echoing ! Hark ! Music of angels is there. 
 Melody Magdalen-chanted ; afar it rose in the distance, 
 Bringing a prayer to the lip, bringing a tear to the eye, 
 Borne on the breeze, or fancied. We sate. The city 
 illumined 
 Shone as a rose : night-shades slowly beginning to fall. 
 Ah, what a vision was there ! But then a vapour as- 
 cending 
 Rose over turret and spire, crept over College and 
 Hall, 
 Death-white, all-enfolding. As when from marshy 
 Maremna, 
 Rises a poisonous breath, ghastly— inhale it, and die ! 
 'Look! that is me,' he whispered, 'I had it once, I am 
 certain. 
 Once I had faith. But now ! Now there is mist 
 over all.'
 
 190 POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 What? You have nowhere found Him? And I, I see 
 Him around me 
 Everywhere ; here first, throned in the spirit of Man. 
 Not in the rushing of worlds, or the timeless passage 
 of ages ; 
 Not in the sunbuilt arch ; not in the cataract's roar ; 
 Not in the mightiest wing that soars o'er the summit 
 of Andes ; 
 Not in the tiniest life born in a drop of the sea ; 
 But in the human spirit ! O Man, imperial Master, 
 Swifter than light thought-borne through the great 
 Ocean on high. 
 Tracking a sunbeam here, and there with balance 
 gigantic 
 Holding a star in thy hand, puny but weighing a 
 world : 
 ' Know thyself,' yet greater than all thy vision beholdeth ! 
 
 Wonderful all, yet thou wonderful even beyond ! 
 Hark ! 'Tis His voice ; thou hear'st Him. A God is 
 speaking within thee ; 
 Terrible now it commands ; Sinai thunders within ; 
 ' This thou shalt, thou shalt not.' Anon, as after the 
 thunder 
 Follows a gentle rain, soft with the piping of birds, 
 So in the calm still bosom is heard the cry of a Father — 
 Tenderly now it approves, — ' Son, be thou ever with 
 me ! 
 Bring him the new best robe, the signet-ring of the 
 Master ! 
 Slavery's every badge washed, with dishonour, away !
 
 PO E jIj S. 191 
 
 Sing him the new great song of the Father's love ! ' 
 And the Angels 
 Hymning a new-born soul, jubilant sang it on high. 
 ' Beautiful ! Here is beauty, above the hue of the rain- 
 bow : 
 Majesty stern, but sweet : Father and Mother in one. 
 Rainbow-promise is good ; but home-lit beacon is better, 
 Over the lurid waves lighting the mariner home.' 
 
 And thou hast loved her, Beauty ? Thou doest well !' 
 'Tis a maiden 
 Fairer than words ; her smile drawn from the bosom 
 of Love. 
 Guard her, and let no touch of the beast or Sat3'r 
 assail her ; 
 Honour her ; hear from her lips, ponder her story 
 divine ! 
 Who, when the morning stars in the bridal joy of 
 Creation 
 Shouted her birth, came forth loveliest daughter of God ; 
 Came and to cheer men's souls, with the brake and 
 briar contending, 
 Gave to the thistle a bloom, budded a rose on the 
 thorn ; 
 Flowers in her track sprang up as she passed, and 
 winds of the woodland 
 Sighed into melody : man heard, and his spirit grew 
 mild. 
 Fair is she, fairer than all. But shall her Beauty en- 
 snare thee 
 Slave to her smile, love-bound, yearning for nothing 
 beyond ?
 
 192 POEMS. 
 
 Dreamer, content with a dream, and the sunht wall of 
 a dungeon 
 Deeming a palace ? A cell, seeming a kingdom to 
 thee ? 
 Nay but, O man, look upward ! Her hand shall lift 
 thee, and lead thee 
 Up to the home of her birth, back to her Father 
 and Thine, 
 Up through the burnished clouds, and the flaming 
 track of the sunset ; 
 Up through the golden stars, gleam of a glory beyond ; 
 World flashing light to world as they pass, like ships 
 in the darkness 
 Showing a light, then soon dash into darkness again. 
 Up through the endless spaces, expansion after expan- 
 sion ; 
 Up to the great white throne ; up to the presence 
 of God ! 
 There shall she fold her wing, and, all her mission 
 accomplished. 
 Join with the spirits on high, singing to ravish the 
 spheres : 
 ' Glory to God in the highest.' The lifelong struggle is 
 over ; 
 Over, the fire and the fret ; over, the rack and the pain ; 
 Failure of hope ; love's discord ! The joy that ended 
 in madness. 
 Over at last ! Life closed, like its beginning, in tears ! 
 Mystery all, for God was the cause. But Love in the 
 distance. 
 Holding an amaranth crown, Love was the goal of 
 it all.
 
 POEMS. 193 
 
 III. 
 
 ' Love ! He is love ! ' I said it, where endless smoke, as 
 a furnace. 
 Hangs o'er the Dead-sea wave, grave of Gomorrah 
 of yore ; 
 There where the bale-fire fell, and the dark sulphur- 
 eous waters. 
 Closing above as a pall, hid the abhorred of God. 
 ' Love ! He is love ! ' I said it, where old Vesuvius thun- 
 ders. 
 Still with the fire in his heart, still with the wrath 
 on his brow ; 
 There where the gay bright cities of fair Parthenope's 
 girdle 
 Trembled, as out of the cloud slowly the horror 
 came down ; 
 Trembled, and when light dawned they knew that a 
 judgment had fallen : 
 Two of their number were not ; two of the circle 
 had gone. 
 ' Gone ! Was it love to slay them, the gay, the bright 
 in the foretime, 
 When the young earth yet knew barely the good 
 and the ill ? 
 When as an insect-race men wantoned gay in the 
 sunshine, 
 Fiercer the fire in the breast, hotter the blood in the 
 vein ? 
 Hard, where the rose twice blossoms to seek austerity's 
 winter ! 
 Hard, to exact life's frost there in the land of the 
 Sun!'
 
 194 POEMS, 
 
 Nay, it was love, I answered. The keenest knife is 
 the kindest, 
 Where the whole body is sick, stern to dissever a 
 limb ; 
 Stern, where the poison works, and the cureless, can- 
 cerous ulcer 
 Threatens the life, forthwith ruthless to lop it away. 
 Canaan's profitless tribes, corrupt Assyrian greatness, 
 Roman, Egyptian, Greek, rotten they perish in 
 turn ; 
 City, or prince, or people, what do ye sinning against 
 Him? 
 Here on His earth, God's work thwarting His pur- 
 pose to man ? 
 Stern is the warrior's sword when a foe is writhing 
 beneath him ; 
 Justice is stern : but Love, love is the sternest of all ; 
 Love is too great for pity. A moan is heard on the 
 mountains ; — 
 Infinite dirge — one race dying is passing away : 
 Life for a moment passes : the stream is slack at the 
 fountain : 
 Earth, as a breast grown old, cannot its sources 
 supply : 
 Listless the people sit ; and the womb is barren, the 
 altar 
 Cold ; and a shuddering race creep to their caverns 
 and die ; 
 Die, and bequeath but an echo that haunts that cavern- 
 ous chamber, 
 ' Ours was the Paradise once : lost, it is never re- 
 gained.'
 
 POEMS. 195 
 
 Only a pause ! Life's winter ! A glacial age ! And a 
 seed-time 
 Big with humanity's hope pointing to better beyond ! 
 Only a pause ! Then Nature awakes, and — torrent gi- 
 gantic — 
 Fresh with Niagara force rushes again to the sea. 
 Love is too great for pity. He loved them, e'en when 
 he smote them ; 
 But love is stern. Elsewhere planted the wicked 
 may mend ; 
 Broken the evil trammel, the bad tradition of elders, 
 Lust as ■ a poisonous dream passed with the bod}' 
 away : 
 Or, as a sixth strong sense, millenniums' horror of evil 
 Burnt in the soul, so long separate living from God. 
 Mystery all / We know not. We shoot a shaft at a 
 venture 
 Into the void. Perchance there we may find it again : 
 It, or a something better, or something different wholly : 
 Leave it to Love. With Love there we shall find it 
 again. 
 And meanwhile this faith I hold, and carry about me, 
 Small as a taper's spark lighting the infinite gloom : 
 What is good for the whole will be also good for the 
 unit : 
 Law is beneficent love : love is benevolent law. 
 Vast is the whole wide world, but Love enfolding it 
 vaster : 
 Leave it to Love ! Outside Love there is nothing 
 at all. 
 ' And what of me,' he murmured, my friend with the 
 delicate features, 
 
 o 2
 
 196 POEMS. 
 
 Over his sad, worn face flitting a shadow of scorn, 
 ' Me, to whom Hfe is dreary, and faith is dark, and the 
 problem 
 Higher than Teneriffe's height, deeper than Africa's 
 sand ; 
 If He but care for the many, the good of the general 
 ant-hill, 
 Not for the separate ant drawing its separate load ; 
 If I, a millionth, get but a millionth part of a millionth 
 Fraction of love, then what— what is this blessing to 
 me ?' 
 
 AMMERGAU. 
 
 We shrink to bare Him to the light intense 
 
 Of hard-eyed cavil, in the glare of day : 
 
 His agony we act not to the sense. 
 
 Lest human grief the Godhead should betray. 
 
 And lower Him to the level of our clay. 
 
 And we do well. But they who have not soared 
 
 So high, to know alone a risen Lord, 
 
 Nor sunk so low to let Him fade away 
 
 Into a cold abstraction — they do well, 
 
 They too, these peasants in their pastures green. 
 
 Still in their Alpine solitude to tell 
 
 The awful tale ; still o'er His Passion's scene 
 
 To weep ; then, grieving o'er their dear Lord's pain, 
 
 Go forth resolved never to sin again.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 197 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 Winds and wild waves in headlong huge commotion 
 Scud, dark with tempest, o'er the Atlantic's breast : 
 
 While, underneath, few fathoms deep in Ocean, 
 Lie peace, and rest. 
 
 Storms in mid-air, the rack before them sweeping, 
 Hurry, and hiss, like furies hate-possessed : 
 
 While, over all, white cloudlets pure are sleeping 
 In peace, in rest. 
 
 Heart, O wild heart ! why, in the storm-world ranging, 
 Flit'st thou thus midwa}^ passion's slave and jest, 
 
 When, all so near, above, below, unchanging 
 Are heaven, and rest ? 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 Cloud, and still cloud, o'erhanging sombre, livid. 
 They crush the soul with anguished, mute despair 
 
 Yet one far hill in sunshine, clear and vivid. 
 Says, Heaven is there. 
 
 An inky sky above an inky ocean. 
 
 Wild seabirds screaming down the startled air : 
 Yet one bright islet, calm amid commotion, 
 
 Says, Heaven is there. 
 
 So bright, so calm, my soul, from Nature borrow 
 Her secret, always calm and bright somewhere ; 
 
 And one serener spot, defying sorrow, 
 Keep ! Heaven is there.
 
 198 POEMS. 
 
 JOY AND GRIEF. 
 
 He sang of joy, 
 
 It had a ring of pain ; 
 He sang of grief, 
 
 It was the sweeter strain. 
 
 For pain is brief, 
 
 And, ere the pain is old, 
 Comes joy's rehef; 
 
 The worst is never told. 
 
 And joy is brief, 
 
 And, while the joy is young, 
 There enters grief; 
 
 The best is never sung. 
 
 The best is never sung, 
 The worst is never told ; 
 
 What harp was ever strung 
 Could passion's depth unfold ? 
 
 Passion, whose glowing springs 
 Burn with so fierce a fire, 
 
 'Twould burst the poet's strings, 
 And shrivel up his lyre. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 Shadows of the morning, on the way. 
 Shadows of a morning, fresh and gay. 
 
 Shadows of the morning, like a maiden's tears 
 adorning 
 For her bridal, Oh ! how soon ye pass away !
 
 POEMS. 199 
 
 Shadows of the noontide, cool and calm, 
 Shadows of oasis, and of palm. 
 
 Where a weary pair are resting, after heat of desert 
 blest in 
 Airs that wander in those shadows, breathing balm ! 
 
 Shadows of the evening, how they fall 
 Sombre, dank, and heavy, like a pall ! 
 
 Slow at first they quicken, then they thicken, thicken, 
 thicken. 
 Till they rush upon us, myriads, veiling all. 
 
 Shadows of the midnight, dark and drear, 
 Shadows of the midnight, fraught with fear; 
 
 But for hopes we fondest cherish, faiths we dare not 
 let to perish, 
 O ye awful, awful, shadows ! And, how near ! 
 
 OUR CHILDREN. 
 
 I LOOKED at the happy children 
 
 Who gathered around the hearth ; 
 So blithe they were, no children 
 
 Could happier be on earth ; 
 With their merry plays, and their winsome ways, 
 
 And the sound of their silvery mirth ! 
 
 Then I thought of those other children, 
 
 So wizened, and hard, and bold, 
 Who huddle in slum and cellar. 
 
 And shiver with want and cold : 
 Not fresh as the dew, or the morning's hue, 
 
 But haggard, and lean, and old.
 
 200 POEMS. 
 
 But yet may they still, those children. 
 
 Be taught to forget their pain ; 
 And, gathered in arms that love them, 
 
 Their laughter may come again ; 
 And the stare of woe, and the craft may go, 
 
 And the bosom be washed of stain. 
 
 But it is not in cold book learning 
 Those children's hearts to move : 
 
 And the Spirit to stir their spirit 
 Must come from the realms above ; 
 
 'Tis an angel alone can touch them, 
 And that angel's name is Love. 
 
 For whatever the world may fanc}-, 
 And whatever the wise men saj" 
 
 Of our nineteenth-century progress. 
 Of a new and a better wa}^ : 
 
 Still it takes a soul to make a soul 
 Now as in the olden day. 
 
 AFTER HORACE. 
 MARCH. 
 
 Little buds of greenness 
 Bursting from the ground ; 
 
 Blasts of icy keenness 
 Withering all around ; 
 
 Thrush and blackbird singing 
 On the reddening larch ; 
 
 Sleet and hailstorm slinging 
 Down the winds of March :
 
 POEMS. 20 1 
 
 Thus they live together 
 
 Like a stormy mind, 
 Bright and bitter weather 
 
 In one month combined ; 
 
 Here a sunny hour 
 
 Glinting through the grey, 
 There a golden flower 
 
 Struggling into day ; 
 
 Gleams of growing kindness 
 
 In a melting sk3^ 
 Then with utter blindness 
 
 Snowdrifts sweeping by. 
 
 So, with bud and blossom. 
 
 Softer, sweeter air, 
 In Neaera's bosom 
 
 Find I my despair. 
 
 For while wood birds warble, 
 And winds change their tone. 
 
 She unmoved as marble 
 Stately stands, alone. 
 
 She than moonlight colder 
 Keeps her wintry sky, 
 
 Freezing the beholder 
 With ungentle eye ; 
 
 Lovely onward gliding. 
 
 But, imperfect whole, 
 Loveless still abiding, 
 
 Unawaked the soul.
 
 202 POEAIS. 
 
 APRIL. 
 
 It was a flower, a little flower, 
 
 Of simple blue and gold, 
 A maiden sowed it, a gardener hoed it 
 
 We watched the flower untold. 
 
 There came one day a lover gay, 
 The maiden's look was shy ; 
 
 He plucked the flower in careless hour, 
 And said, I will her trj'. 
 
 He gave it to her, that careless wooer. 
 
 She did not turn away ; 
 By sun and moon, and all that 's soon, 
 
 She was his own that day. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 We had a flower, a little flower, 
 
 We lived for it alone ; 
 One daughter fair of beauty rare, 
 
 We thought her all our own. 
 
 So passed the hour of sun and shower. 
 
 Till April bloomed to May ; 
 Then came another, and father, mother. 
 
 Were naught : she has flown away. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 It was the time of Autumn, 
 When leaves were turning brown. 
 
 Green to yellow, and pied, and black, 
 And some were tumbling down.
 
 POEMS. 20 
 
 .^ 
 
 It was the time of Autumn, 
 
 When fruits are gathered in, 
 Some for the press, and some for the vat, 
 
 And some for the miller's bin. 
 
 Then poor folk fell a-singing. 
 
 Because their work was o'er ; 
 And rich folk fell a-sighing, 
 
 That they could play no more. 
 
 For the summer-time is a merry time, 
 If a man have leisure to play ; 
 
 But the summer-time is a weary time, 
 If a man must work alway. 
 
 And a cloud sits on the mountain, 
 
 And a mist lies in the vale ; 
 And the moon swims, and vapour dims 
 
 Her horn ; and the sun is pale. 
 
 And love, who dwells in summer skies, 
 And droops, when they are not, 
 
 Departed, as the swallow flies, 
 Forgetting, and forgot. 
 
 DECEMBER . 
 
 It was but the wild waves playing, 
 It was but the wild wind's roar. 
 
 It was but a pale maid straying 
 Alone by a wreck-strewn shore. 
 
 It was but a day of December 
 
 That followed a day of June; 
 But to spirits that can remember. 
 
 What a wail in the words, ' 'Tis done ' !
 
 204 POEMS. 
 
 The dream is broken and faded. 
 The joy departed and flown ; 
 
 And to bosoms that loved as they did 
 'Tis death to Hve on alone. 
 
 O sea, that her lover art hiding, 
 O wind, with the dirge-like tune, 
 
 There 's a fathomless gulph dividing 
 A da}^ of December and June. 
 
 IDEM. 
 
 He stepped from the darkened chamber, 
 
 He passed to the cold white air, 
 And he knew that the world's best treasure 
 
 Lay buried behind him there. 
 
 For it was not an idle fancy, 
 
 Nor a foolish boy's light whim, 
 Nor the love of a heart that is touched in part 
 
 It was all the world to him. 
 
 And perhaps it will take him one j^ear, 
 
 Perhaps it will take him two, 
 Perhaps he will never forget it, 
 
 As some poor creatures do. 
 
 Perhaps it will live for ever. 
 
 Engrained in his memory, 
 And be heard as a sigh in the songs on high 
 
 Of the blest by the crystal sea.
 
 POEMS. 20,-; 
 
 HODGE. 
 
 ON SA VI NG. 
 
 What 's the use o' savin', when there 's nowt for a man 
 
 to buy ? 
 Cow, and cottage, and garden, that 's not for the hke o' 1. 
 Land! that's for they big 'uns as hve up there on the 
 
 hill ; 
 Not for low-born fellers, like you, and me, and Bill. 
 
 Then drink, boys; drink, boys; never stop to think, 
 
 boys; 
 Wi' wages high let money fly ; 
 To-morrow they may sink, boys. 
 
 What's the use o' savin', when they help yer if ye 
 
 are ill. 
 Four bob every week, Jimmy, and pay your Doctors 
 
 bill .' 
 There's some as abuse them Guardians, and say they're 
 
 hard as a stone. 
 But folk come to like 'em better, Jimmy, better the 
 
 more they 're known. 
 
 Then drink, (Sic. 
 
 What's the use o' savin', wi' Parson close at the door. 
 And allays soup in his kitchen, and he so good to the 
 
 poor? 
 And a reglar lady up yonder, wi' a sight o" money and 
 
 land, 
 And cold meat had for the asking, and the purse never 
 
 out o' her hand. 
 
 Then drink, (S:c.
 
 206 POEMS. 
 
 What's the use o' savin', when there's allays grub to 
 
 be had, 
 Skilly at night and morning, and the stuff" is none so 
 
 bad ? 
 And so, if yer like a tramp, Jimmj'-, yer can pass from 
 
 ward to ward, 
 Onl}' a little oakum to pick, and that's not hard. 
 
 Then drink, &c. 
 
 What's the use o' savin', o' putting away your cash, 
 And just when yer want your money, your club is sure 
 
 to smash ? 
 Fuddle, and fuddle, and fuddle, up there at the Royal 
 
 Oak, 
 That 's how your managers manage, and so the club 
 
 gets broke. 
 
 Then drink, &c. 
 
 What 's the use o' savin', when yer 've oilers ' the House ' 
 
 at last, 
 ' Poor Man's Home ' they call it, when strength and 
 
 health are past ? 
 They say, yer lose your good name, if once them walls 
 
 yer see ; 
 But, lor ! good name 's for rich folk, Jimmy ; it 's not for 
 
 the like o' we. 
 
 Then drink, &c. 
 
 Then what 's the use o' savin', and they bury yer, too, 
 
 when dead ; 
 Coffin o' deal, that 's all ; but who wants a coffin o' lead ?
 
 POEMS. 207 
 
 So 3^er cannot be better for savin', and yer cannot be 
 
 worse if yer spend, 
 And it's jolly o' nights to sit here, Jimmy, and drain 
 
 a glass wi' a frend. 
 
 Then drink, &c. 
 1874 (about). 
 
 ON CHURCH-GOING. 
 
 I doan't go to Church, 'cause I cannot see the good ; 
 And yet I'm none so sartin I should go there if I could ; 
 For I does what I likes, and jest when I likes, d'yer see? 
 And I 've none so great a liking for them there seats 
 ' called Free.' 
 
 I doan't go to Church, 'cause my coat is getting old, 
 And the big folks look and mutter, ' Beggars, sure, is 
 
 getting bold.' 
 Mebbe, some day up in heaven, if they get there, they 
 
 will larn. 
 Them above don't stop to ask yer if your coat has got 
 
 a darn. 
 
 I doan't go to Church, cause the place it be so grand, 
 
 Fit for them with coach and 'osses, wi' great housen, 
 and wi' land ; 
 
 And then Parson he 's so larned, what a' means I can- 
 not tell ; 
 
 Folks speaks plainer down at Chappul. How the}' du 
 go on at Hell !
 
 20S POEMS. 
 
 I doan't go to Church, cause, wi' Squoire a' sitting there, 
 I keep thinking what he called me, when he cotched 
 
 me wi' a snare ; 
 It wer jest outside my garden, yet the names that he 
 
 did call ! 
 Thief and poacher ! lawkamussy ! but a rabbut arter 
 
 all! 
 
 Parson, he's a kind old gem'man, and his wife is kinder 
 
 still, 
 Wi' her trac's, and wi' her pudden, and her bottles when 
 
 ye're ill ; 
 But it's not what I wants, to be tinkered when I'm 
 
 down ; 
 It 's to get up, and to keep up, and 'ave summat o' iwy 
 
 own. 
 
 That's the thing. And if the Boible (as them farmers 
 
 du agree) 
 Be agen poor folk a' rising, then I'll let the Boible be. 
 Parson says, I'm but a haythen. Well, a toad 'ull love 
 
 his hole. 
 \{ he cared more for my body, p'raps I'd care more 
 
 for my soul. 
 
 So I doan't go to Church, 'cause I dunnot see the good; 
 But I takes a walk instead of 't in the holler by the 
 
 wood ; 
 And my dawg he goes behind me, and I smoakes all 
 
 the way ; 
 He's a rare 'un still at rabbuts, is my old dawg Tray. 
 
 1875 (about).
 
 PO E MS. 209 
 
 VOX VENTURA. 
 
 What '11 I do with my vote, when I 've got it ? Nay, 
 
 don't yer ask ! 
 Tapping your beer's no good, till yer 've got your beer 
 
 in the cask ; 
 Votin' agen my Squoire sounds all very moity and 
 
 grand, 
 But I'll not talk o' my vote till I've got my vote i' 
 
 my hand. 
 
 Harkee, however, my frend ! Ye 're makin' a speech 
 
 yer say: 
 ' Got to get up your case.' Well ! can keep a secret ? Aye ? 
 Then look here ! ' Sit down ! A pipe, and a pottle o' ale ? ' 
 Well, doan't mind if I do. Here's to yer? And now, 
 
 my tale ! 
 
 Fust, my house ! As I am, a pig fares better nor I, 
 Feeds as well, doan't work, and lives in a fust-rate stye. 
 We 've one room for all. And with that, there 's nohe 
 
 as can 
 Bring up a family dasent ; no, not if he's twoice a matl. 
 
 Then my garden ! See, I 'd like it just twoice as big ; 
 Handy when work is slack, and room enough for a pig ; 
 ' Muck is money,' yer know, and then a pig '11 eat 
 What yer cannot, or won't, and he turns it all to meat. 
 
 Then, my childern ! Bob, and Sal, and ten of 'em more ; 
 Like enough they seem, please Heaven, to reach a score; 
 Parson says, I mun pay tlieir schoolin' ; but I doan't see 
 Why I should pay a penny ; why can't yer teach 'em free? 
 
 p
 
 2IO POEMS. 
 
 Then there 's a cow, an' grass. The young 'uns look thin 
 
 an' pale ; 
 Wife, she says it 's the want o' milk, it 's dearer nor ale : 
 Farmers send theirs to Lunnon, o' coorse they do; 
 
 it pays : 
 So, I '11 go for a cow, an' a acre o' land, to graze. 
 
 Politics ? Well, see here ! I were oilers loyal an' true, 
 An' when beer were plenty my colours were allers 
 
 'Blue'; 
 Fought for it, too, like a man ; an' I made the old town 
 
 ring 
 Hollering Church an' State, an' all that sort o' thing. 
 
 Jim, he voted 'Yeller,' an' talked o' cheapenin' bread; 
 Radical chap were Jim ; 'ow I used to punch 'is 'ead ! 
 But, when I 've got a vote, can't say but p'raps I'll go 
 An' vote along wi' Jim. Yer must move with the times, 
 yer know. 
 
 Work ? Nay, I doan't mind workin', as long as it ain't 
 
 too hard. 
 Wages .' I doan't want nothin' as isn't a fair reward. 
 But my idee and the farmers' they doan't agree alvvay ; 
 They want yer to work twelve hours, an' get two shillin' 
 
 a day. 
 
 No, Sir ! That won't do ! A slave is a slave, an' lives 
 Just where his master tells him, an' takes what his 
 
 master gives ; 
 But, when I 've a vote, I '11 show 'em — I '11 let my 
 
 master see — 
 If he do nothmg for I, then I '11— But let that be !
 
 PO E M S. 211 
 
 Time for more? Well then, when a man's grown old, 
 
 an' past 
 Work, I say it's a shame he should go to 'the House' 
 
 at last ; 
 Tied up there like a dog, an' never go out unless 
 Master gives yer leave, and then in a pauper dress ! 
 
 Sir, I 'm an English-man, d' ye hear ? an' I 'd just as lief 
 Go to H-U as ' the House ' ; so I '11 have out-door relief; 
 Four an' sixpence a week, an' a loaf a day, an' a ton 
 O' the best o' coal at Christmas— an' more when that 
 is done. 
 
 There, now yer 've got it all ; but doan't yer say it 's 
 
 fro' me : 
 Squoire, he doan't like folk as speaks their mind too 
 
 free ; 
 Now I mun stand wi' my hat in my hand, as he 
 
 goes by: 
 P'raps there "s some as '11 stand wi' their hat to me, by 
 
 an' bye. 
 
 1883. 
 
 VOTING BY BALLOT. 
 
 There's Mister Bull down in these parts, an' a fine old 
 
 gent he weer, 
 An' he 's sarved in hevery Parlament for wellnigh thirty 
 
 year; 
 An' there's Simon Brown, 'is gardener, as lives i' the 
 
 lodge hard by, 
 An' a ticklish chap is Simon, as they say he's horful 
 
 sly. 
 
 p Z
 
 212 POEMS. 
 
 Then sez Mister Bull to Simon, ' Look 'ere, my frend,' 
 
 sez he, 
 ' Ther 's the great Elekshun cummin' on, an' a fearful 
 
 fight ther '11 be: 
 An' ther 's sum as wants new heverything, an' the Church 
 
 an' Queen 'ull fall, 
 An' the rates 'ull be tremenjous, Simon, and thej' '11 turn 
 
 me out o' the Hall. 
 
 'An' ther 's Gladstun, an' Joe Chamberlen ; an', true as 
 
 yer name is Brown, 
 If them two gets the hupper 'and, this country '11 shure 
 
 go down ; 
 An' the tother side ther's Salsbury, an' Lord Randy, 
 
 our new star ; 
 An' I wish that young man 'ad more sense, as he's too 
 
 much cheek by far. 
 
 'But them's the men to stick to, Simon, as puts no tax 
 on beer : 
 
 An' as got no maggits in ther 'ead, an' the right sow 
 by the ear : 
 
 An' them 's the men to drive the coach, an' put on curb 
 an' drag, 
 
 An' Stan' no himperent Rooshan lies, no caperin' French- 
 man's brag. 
 
 ' Now, I wants to know this of yer, as 'as ate m}' bred 
 
 so long, 
 An' the missus as gives yer childern clothes, an fisic 
 
 to make 'em strong ; 
 An' the ballot-box be hanged, Simon, as lets nun know 
 
 who 's who ; 
 An' how do yer mean to vote, my lad? Sa}' out, is't 
 
 yeller or blue ? '
 
 POEMS. 213 
 
 Then that ole man he look'd hup an' down, an' 'is smile 
 
 cum strange an' queer, 
 An' he 'itched 'is trousers hup a peg, an' he giv' a sort 
 
 o' a leer. 
 An' he sez, ' It 's werry kind, Squoire, to Hghten me 
 
 up that way ; 
 An' yer 've oilers been that kind to me, as before 'em 
 
 all I'll say. 
 
 "An' as to that same vote o' mine, 'bout which yer wish 
 to know, 
 
 I never were that sort o' a man to say " Yes," mean- 
 ing " No." 
 
 An' I '11 jist be free an' open, Squoire, as 'twere betwixt 
 us two, 
 
 An' I '11 tell yer wot I 'm thinkin' on, an' wot I means 
 to do. 
 
 ' So when it comes, th' Elekshun, I ain't a goin' to fight, 
 A knockin' poor folk on the 'ead, an' a drinkin' till ye 're 
 
 tight ; 
 An' I ain't a goin' to meetin's, where ye 're squoshed as 
 
 flat as dough, 
 An' I'll wear no ribbins in my at, like a Hagriculshural 
 
 show. 
 
 'But I'll just put on my Sunday cote, an' I'll go where 
 
 the votes is given, 
 An' I '11 go there by myself, Squoire, not like a beast 
 
 that 's driven ; 
 An' I woan't say nuthin' to nobody, not even my wife, 
 
 that 's Sue ; 
 An' I'll gi' my vote by ballot, Squoire, an' that's what 
 
 I mean to do.'
 
 214 POEMS. 
 
 Then Mister Bull look'd orkerd, an' he star'd at the ole 
 
 man Brown, 
 An' summat he said as I couldn't hear, but it cum from 
 
 a good way down ; 
 An', sez he, ' Ye're larfin at me ; but my frend, I'd have 
 
 yer know. 
 As it ain't the winnin' fightin-cock as fust begins to crow.' 
 
 'So, Brown,' sez he— ' Nay, Squoire,' quoth he,— 'As 
 
 shure as ever is,' — 
 'I beg yer pardin', Squoire, I do' — 'Yer '11 have to paj^ 
 
 for this.' 
 But the ole man he luk'd hinnercent, an' he softly shuk 
 
 'is 'ead ; 
 ' An' I means to vote b}- ballot,' were all the words he 
 
 said. 
 1885. 
 
 ON THE IRISH QUESTION. 
 
 Thought as it all wer over, an' 'ere we're at it again, 
 Jus' like last long winter, wi' snow, an' slushin', an' 
 
 rain ; 
 Niver no end but a muddle, an' not a word o' the cow 
 As they promised me last Elekshun ; ther's nun sez 
 
 ort o' it now. 
 
 An' all for wot ? them Irish, as niver at 'ome 'uU staj', 
 Swarms out 'ere like rabbuts, a eatin' up poor folks 
 
 pay; 
 
 Wants 'Omerule they tell us. Yer stay at 'ome, sez I ; 
 We too 'as to live, as we '11 show it yer by an' bj^e.
 
 POEMS. 215 
 
 Can't make out wot it means: ther's Gladstun all for 
 
 'em now, 
 As once he wer' all agen 'em, jus' like a dissolving show. 
 Thinks he 's gettin' too old, like Grandfather. Just 'is way. 
 Cussing the yung 'uns for noise, then spilin 'em all next 
 
 day. 
 
 Thinks he 's summat like Parson, as oilers 'as sum new 
 
 craze, 
 Joos, or niggers, or Injuns, for 'oom he preaches an' 
 
 prays ; 
 An' shure as he sez as summat 'ull happen, you bet it fails, 
 ' Heads,' he cries, for iver, an' th' ha'penny comes down 
 
 'tails.' 
 
 Irish ? He doan't know th' Irish ; he niver worked in a 
 
 field 
 'Long wi' a gang on 'em ; else he 'd know, do'sn't do to 
 
 yield 
 Jus' becos o' their talkin' ; they'll arg'yer a hole nite long : 
 Wants to show a bit curridge, an' put yer foot down 
 
 strong. 
 
 Doan't do showin' afraid : if yer ridin' a wishus mare. 
 Keep yer grip o' the reins, or she '11 tumble j^er off sum- 
 
 wl].ere. 
 Jim sez, 'Gi 'em 'Omerule ! ' he 's an easy fellow, is Jim : 
 ' Get 'Omerule for yersen,' sez I — his wife rules 'im. 
 
 Wimmin is just like th' Irish. Yer let 'em open a door 
 Only an inch, they'll do yer; yer '11 ne'er get shut on 
 
 'em more : 
 When a should say ' keep civil," or ' dang it ' ; but wot 's 
 
 the use 
 Teechin' a critter like Jim, as ain't the pluck o' a goose?
 
 211^ POEMS. 
 
 Lick 'em, an' then they'll love yer ! But bless us, an' 
 
 'oo comes 'ere ? 
 Hang'd if it ain't that feller, as weedled my voat last 
 
 year ! 
 An' I paid for it all thro' winter. Ther's Squoire, he 
 
 larnt sumhow — 
 Lawyers can see thro' ballot— an' made a 'ell of a row. 
 
 An' then, when he wer' our Member, I ne'er got site 
 
 o' im more ; 
 An' coles was goin' at Crismas, an' none on 'em cum 
 
 to my door ; 
 An' farmers cut off the milk, an' Parson, he turns 'is nose 
 Uppards, as I wer a midden, an' then luks down at 
 
 'is tose. 
 
 An' wot 's the good o' losin' yer trends, as 'as been yer 
 
 frends ? 
 An' tother to give yer nuthin,' but soon as Elekshun ends, 
 Packin' 'is carpet bag, wi' his talk an' oil on 'is tung, 
 Leave yer to starve? 'Well, zur?' ' Ole frend'— 'Ole 
 
 frend ' be hung ! 
 
 ' Wot did yer do for me last seshun ? ' ' The grand 
 
 ole man 
 Sez as yer turn is comin' ; he 's got the doose of a plan. 
 Hush ! 'twoudn't do to tell it ; if once them Tories know, 
 Sartin as he sez 'Yes,' Lord Randy 'ull say yer 'No'; 
 
 * Only yer stick to Gladstun ! ' Ah, so yer sed last time, 
 An' didn't I stick to 'im fast, as fast as a bird in lime ? 
 An' a lot o' good it did me. Confound yer promises all ! 
 Promises, nort but promise, an' th' weaker goes to the 
 wall.
 
 POEMS. 217 
 
 Now it is all them Irish, — I reads my paper, yer see, — 
 Parnell as gives yer trouble, so all on yer goes for he ; 
 An' next it'ull be sum other, Dissenter, or God knows '00, 
 An' then yer '11 go at the Church, like 'ounds wi' a 
 'ollabaloo, 
 
 Nothin' for me! Wot say yer? 'I'm jest a kind of 
 
 a ass ! ' 
 An' 'ow long wos it ago, Zur, since you too cum'd from 
 
 grass ? 
 I 'm but sayin' as you did, an' Gladstun did, before ; 
 ' Gi 'em the same as England, but niver a ha'penny 
 
 more ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, but it 's trooth an' justiss ! ' That 's all very foine 
 
 to say; 
 I knows trooth an' justiss, they niver was born in a day : 
 It's all lyin' an' party, an' shifts to 'Yes' from 'No'; 
 An' confound both yer parties, as brort us to this 
 
 'ere go ! 
 1886. 
 
 ON TRESPASS. 
 
 How dull the country 's gettin', I hear the nayburs 
 
 say, 
 Wi' nottisses at every turn, as sez, ' No road this 
 
 way ! ' 
 Time wos, as one who ment no harm mite go which 
 
 way he would, 
 Wi' nare a notiss in the field, or a keeper in the 
 
 wood.
 
 2l8 POEMS. 
 
 Oh, the fezzant is a skeary bird, particolarly the hen ; 
 But I doan't see how as woods were made for fezzants 
 
 not for men : 
 An' the partridg" likes a quiet field, wi' few as passes 
 
 by; 
 
 Aye, yes, he likes to 'ave 'is way, of coorse, an' so 
 do I. 
 
 We made the country wot it is, an' 'ere our 'omes 'ave 
 
 been 
 Long ere he cum to set us rite, that chap in velveteen : 
 As, if yer walk beside a 'edge, he thinks yer've got a 
 
 snare, 
 An' yer 'at wos made for fezzant's eggs, an' yer pockit 
 
 for a hare. 
 
 When Squoire lived "ere I lov'd to see 'm, wi' pointer 
 
 at 'is side ; 
 Ther' was no drives nor battus tlien, as isn't sport but 
 
 pride : 
 Then game was less, but sport wos more ; an" he sed 
 
 as he went by, 
 ' Here Jim ! ' (that's me) 'this rabbut take, it'll feed 5'er 
 
 famully.' 
 
 But now he's gone, an' summon 's cum, as we 'ardly 
 
 knows 'is name, 
 Sum furriner wi' frends from town, an' the}' saj' he 
 
 sells 'is game ; 
 Leastways he 'as a spring-cart wi' "im. as to the town 
 
 it goes : 
 An' he sta3's 'ere for a cupple o' weeks, an' nare a 
 
 sowl he knows.
 
 POEMS. 1^0^ 
 
 Now I tell yer wot, yer Gemmen, as lives in 'ouses 
 
 grand, 
 Yer 've got the luck, yer've got the gould, an' 3'e're 
 
 owners o' the land ; 
 But the countr3'side wer made for all ; God made it 
 
 open, free, 
 An' 'twer niver ment to be shut up, like door wi' lock 
 
 an' key. 
 
 An' I 'ate to walk on pathways, an' I 'ate to live by 
 
 rool, 
 'Yer must, yer musn't, go that road," jus' like a child 
 
 at school ; 
 An' I 'ate to see the old waj^s stopp'd, wher' oilers 
 
 ways 'ave been ; 
 An', formost-fust, I 'ate 'im wust, that chap in velveteen. 
 
 But I likes to 'ave things plezzant, an' I grudges nun 
 
 'is sport ; 
 An' I likes the good old famullies, as wos o' the rite 
 
 old sort ; 
 As shot, an' fished, an' hunted fair, for the plezzure, 
 
 not the game, 
 An' loved the old place wher' they lived, an' knew us 
 
 all by name. 
 
 But these new folk as ties things up is another biz- 
 
 ness quite ; 
 An' a countr}- ain't worth livin' in wher' trespass is 
 
 too tite : 
 An' if the law's agen the poor, an' for them as 'as the tin, 
 Well, I 've a voat, an' if they fight, we'll see 'oose side 
 
 'ull win. 
 1887.
 
 220 POEMS. 
 
 THE JEIVBILLEE. 
 
 We lives in a biggish villidge, sum calls it a smallish town, 
 An' we thinks ourselves good Churchmen, an' we 're all 
 
 for Queen an' Crown : 
 An' Parson, he likes things stirrin', so he up an' he 
 
 sez, sez he, 
 ' It 's time as we 'ad a meetin', to tork o' this Jewbillee.' 
 
 So the meetin' it cum together, an' Parson, he tuk the 
 
 chair, 
 An' sez he, ' Dear frends, th' occashun is won hun- 
 
 commonly rare ; 
 An' the owld Church wants a pulpit, an' summut to 
 
 last, yer see, 
 Is the thing as yer should be seekin', 'bove all at a 
 
 Jewbillee.' 
 
 Then arter 'im spoke our Plumber, we calls 'im 
 
 Crotchetty Crump, 
 (An' he "ummed an' he 'awed amazin'), 'Wot say yer 
 
 to 'avin' a pump, 
 Wi' the Royal Harms hemblazoned, an' hopen to all 
 
 an' tree, 
 An' that "ull be summut lastin' to tell of our Jewbillee ? ' 
 
 Then next to 'im rose our Brewer, who sed wi' a 
 
 cunnin' leer, 
 ' Yer pump be hanged ! Let 's gi' em a spred, wi' plenty 
 
 o' beer : 
 An' ther's some as 'ull 'ave 'ot coppers a takin' ther 
 
 glass too free, 
 x\n' that ull be fine an' lastin' to 'mind 'em of Jewbillee.'
 
 POEMS. 221 
 
 An' the therd on 'em wer' the Grocer, 'oose name it 
 is Dodger Mills, 
 
 An' ther's nothin' as he won't sell yer, from pepper- 
 mint up to pills ; 
 
 An' sez he, ' Yer beer's all pison ; let's gi' 'em a hole- 
 some tea, 
 
 Wi' sugar at will : doan't stint 'em, my frends, at a 
 Jewbillee ! ' 
 
 Then I 'erd as it wer' a snortin' fro' won as beside me 
 
 sat, — 
 Our Butcher — he spoke it sittin', becos he wer' short 
 
 an' fat — 
 An', ' Tea 's very well for wimmen ; but beef for men,' 
 
 sez he, 
 ' Wi' plenty o' suet pudden 's the thing for a Jewbillee.' 
 
 And Milkman, he bragg'd 'is butter, an' Baker, he puflf'd 
 
 'is bred : 
 An' Parson, he tried to stop 'em, but they wasn't at 
 
 Church, they sed : 
 An' I thort as they'd all get fightin', for non' on 'em 
 
 could agree, 
 But each on 'em 'ad 'is 'obby to ride for the Jewbillee. 
 
 Sez Brewer, ' Yer sand yer shugar ' : sez Grocer, 
 ' That same 's a lie ' : 
 
 ' If ye say that again,' says Brewer, 'take care or I'll 
 black yer eye ' 
 
 (Jus' like one of them wild Irish in Parlerment all so 
 free), 
 
 ' An' that 'ull be summut lastin' to show for yer Jew- 
 billee.'
 
 222 POEMS. 
 
 Then sudden I 'erd a snortin' agen, an' it's my belief 
 As Butcher 'd 'ave gon fo summun, unless they had 
 
 gon for beef : 
 So savidge he turn'd on Grocer wi' a word as begins 
 
 wi' D, 
 Which I'm shure I will never repeat it, leastways at a 
 
 Jewbillee. 
 
 But at last they 'ave made things plezzant by takin' 'em 
 
 all in a lump, 
 Pulpit, an' beer, an' pudden', an' beef, an' a tea, an' 
 
 pump : 
 An' the men is to 'ave a dinner, an' the young an' the 
 
 old a tea, 
 An' that's 'ow we got it settled down 'ere for the 
 
 Jewbillee. 
 
 P.S. 
 The dinner's for folk not sixty, an' I wer' sixty in 
 
 May: 
 So I take's my famully Bible, an' halters the month an' 
 
 day: 
 An' if this hain't quite propper, why a loyal feller like 
 
 me, 
 He shure-ly shouldn't be habsent, left hout of a Jewbillee. 
 
 1887. 
 
 PENULTIMATE. 
 
 Sitting with a vacant brow 
 
 In a chimney-corner cold ; 
 Winter, always winter now, 
 
 See him ageing! Hodge is old.
 
 POEMS. 223 
 
 Cottage stripped from floor to roof, 
 
 Cupboard empty, larder bare ! 
 Hunger hardly kept aloof. 
 
 Oh, how hard, by parish care ! 
 
 While the hand whose mighty clutch 
 
 Tore the oak up, giant-strong. 
 Barely can sustain a crutch, 
 
 Barely lift the lame along : 
 
 And the hour foreseen afar 
 
 Comes with sickness, ache, and pain ; 
 Stricken by an evil star. 
 
 Fallen, he cannot rise again. 
 
 Bit by bit 'twas gathered in. 
 
 Bit by bit his treasure flies. 
 Till with nothing but his skin. 
 
 All is over, and he dies. 
 
 Then — Nay, leave him there alone ! 
 
 Fare-thee-well, Hodge, honest fellow ! 
 Something still is to be done 
 
 Nature's crab in thee to mellow : 
 
 Shape thy life on loftier plan. 
 
 Give it aim, and hope, and relish, 
 
 Leave thee still unvarnished man, 
 Yet with art thy lot embellish : 
 
 Keep thee sober, saving, health}', 
 
 Merrier as in days of old ; 
 With enough to live on, wealthy. 
 
 Leaving us the race for gold :
 
 224 POEMS. 
 
 Perhaps a cottage all thine own, 
 Ready money for thy baker, 
 
 Butcher's meat not quite unknown, 
 And (perchance) ' the cow and acre.' « 
 
 Who will do this, he shall be 
 ' Civitatis dux et pater ^ 
 
 Leader, chief, at least to me, 
 And— confound the Agitator ! 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 The old man is dead ; lay him low ! 
 
 White as snow was his head ; lay him low ! 
 
 Lay him low in the earth where he laboured so long, 
 
 While his arm it was lusty, his heart it was strong. 
 
 Long ago : 
 There were men in our hamlet both comely and tall. 
 But he was the leader, the stoutest of all : 
 Ah, how brief is our life ! Lay him low ! 
 
 Who are these that escort to the grave ? 
 Mourners meet for the true and the brave ? 
 
 Oh ! he worked for us well ! 
 Surely beauty will weep, wealth and honour will 
 
 come. 
 For the soldier of industry borne to his tomb : 
 
 Tongues will tell, 
 How he bore sun and frost, snow and storm, for our 
 
 sake ; 
 Nothing seemed his great strength, his high courage 
 to shake. 
 Till at last in our service he fell.
 
 POEMS. 2^5 
 
 Who are these then, his cortege of woe ? 
 Wife, and child ? Nay, they died long ago. 
 Friends, and neighbours ? A pauper's ? Ah, no ! 
 
 Look and see ! 
 Note it well ! Three old shadows, three paupers, are 
 
 all 
 Who limp after- the parish finds coffin and pall — 
 While the Autumn-winds rave, and the Autumn-leaves 
 fall : 
 
 Only three ! 
 Three old shadows ! And one, by his horrible glee. 
 Has been drinking. In drink the crushed spirit goes 
 free : 
 He forgets that he still is a thrall. /3 
 
 Yet his work! Oh, but think! Fen and field 
 From their wildness redeemed, till they yield 
 Fruit and grain ! And the swamp-fever healed 
 
 By the sweat of his brow ! 
 As he moved on his way, 'neath his masterful tread 
 Some plague was uprooted, some ague-fit fled ; 
 Earth blossomed beneath him, sky brightened o'erhead ; 
 
 Where the thistle grew rank, harvests grow. 
 
 Best of conquerors ! Peace has its crown 
 Well as war. Though no marble look down 
 On his bones ; yet above him the sod will be green, 
 And on high where more truly true service is seen. 
 He too shall not lack his renown. 
 
 But his faults ! Nay, we know them. His lot 
 Was a hard one. Now all be forgot! 
 All but this, that as long as he could he worked on : 
 
 Q
 
 226 POEMS. 
 
 How he suffered, none knew : even now he is gone, 
 We scarce guess how he bore his sad burden alone. 
 
 Wet or dry, 
 Hot or cold, he complained not ; took things as they 
 
 came ; 
 Bad luck ! wretched cards ! still he plaj^ed out the 
 
 game; 
 
 Semi-blind, racked with gravel, rheumaticky, lame, 
 Groaning inward, yet cheery, still outward the same ! 
 Then hushed be the world's jest, and moist be the 
 ej^e ! 
 
 Hats oft', as the coffin goes by ! 
 
 a. p. 224. A Scotch farmer suggests as an alternalive — ' With 
 a goat and half-an-acre,' adding, ' the milk is verra gude, and the 
 beast will eat anything ; but she's a deevil to climb.' 
 
 /3. p. 225. An incident, like that here described, is said, in 
 Lord Shaftesbury's life, to have given him the first impulse to 
 his labours for the poor. Things are better now. 
 
 THE END>
 
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