Yet if a fear,
Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints
By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk
Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made
And heard thee swear--brother--_I_ have not sworn--
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall?
Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints
By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk
Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made
And heard thee swear--brother--_I_ have not sworn--
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall?
Tennyson
He means the thing he says. See him out safe!
LEOFWIN. He hath blown himself as red as fire with curses.
An honest fool! Follow me, honest fool,
But if thou blurt thy curse among our folk,
I know not--I may give that egg-bald head
The tap that silences.
HAROLD. See him out safe.
[_Exeunt_ LEOFWIN _and_ MARGOT.
GURTH. Thou hast lost thine even temper, brother Harold!
HAROLD. Gurth, when I past by Waltham, my foundation
For men who serve the neighbour, not themselves,
I cast me down prone, praying; and, when I rose,
They told me that the Holy Rood had lean'd
And bow'd above me; whether that which held it
Had weaken'd, and the Rood itself were bound
To that necessity which binds us down;
Whether it bow'd at all but in their fancy;
Or if it bow'd, whether it symbol'd ruin
Or glory, who shall tell? but they were sad,
And somewhat sadden'd me.
GURTH.
Yet if a fear,
Or shadow of a fear, lest the strange Saints
By whom thou swarest, should have power to balk
Thy puissance in this fight with him, who made
And heard thee swear--brother--_I_ have not sworn--
If the king fall, may not the kingdom fall?
But if I fall, I fall, and thou art king;
And, if I win, I win, and thou art king;
Draw thou to London, there make strength to breast
Whatever chance, but leave this day to me.
LEOFWIN (_entering_). And waste the land about thee as thou goest,
And be thy hand as winter on the field,
To leave the foe no forage.
HAROLD. Noble Gurth!
Best son of Godwin! If I fall, I fall--
The doom of God! How should the people fight
When the king flies? And, Leofwin, art thou mad?
How should the King of England waste the fields
Of England, his own people? --No glance yet
Of the Northumbrian helmet on the heath?
LEOFWIN. No, but a shoal of wives upon the heath,
And someone saw thy willy-nilly nun
Vying a tress against our golden fern.
HAROLD. Vying a tear with our cold dews, a sigh
With these low-moaning heavens.