Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath
Which, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky cleave
To the very feet of God, and send her hosts
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, dash
The torch of war among your
standing
corn,
Dabble your hearths with your own blood.
Tennyson
Delay is death to thee, ruin to England.
WULFNOTH (_whispering_).
Swear, dearest brother, I beseech thee, swear!
HAROLD (_putting his hand on the jewel_).
I swear to help thee to the crown of England.
WILLIAM. Thanks, truthful Earl; I did not doubt thy word,
But that my barons might believe thy word,
And that the Holy Saints of Normandy
When thou art home in England, with thine own,
Might strengthen thee in keeping of thy word,
I made thee swear.--Show him by whom he hath sworn.
[_The two_ BISHOPS _advance, and raise the cloth of gold.
The bodies and bones of Saints are seen lying in the ark_.
The holy bones of all the Canonised
From all the holiest shrines in Normandy!
HAROLD. Horrible! [_They let the cloth fall again_.
WILLIAM.
Ay, for thou hast sworn an oath
Which, if not kept, would make the hard earth rive
To the very Devil's horns, the bright sky cleave
To the very feet of God, and send her hosts
Of injured Saints to scatter sparks of plague
Thro' all your cities, blast your infants, dash
The torch of war among your
standing
corn,
Dabble your hearths with your own blood.
--Enough!
Thou wilt not break it! I, the Count--the King--
Thy friend--am grateful for thine honest oath,
Not coming fiercely like a conqueror, now,
But softly as a bridegroom to his own.
For I shall rule according to your laws,
And make your ever-jarring Earldoms move
To music and in order--Angle, Jute,
Dane, Saxon, Norman, help to build a throne
Out-towering hers of France.... The wind is fair
For England now.... To-night we will be merry.
To-morrow will I ride with thee to Harfleur.
[_Exeunt_ WILLIAM _and all the_ NORMAN BARONS, _etc_.
