No More Learning

STIGAND. The Norman Count is down.

EDITH. So perish all the enemies of England!

STIGAND. No, no, he hath risen again--he bares his face--
Shouts something--he points onward--all their horse
Swallow the hill locust-like, swarming up.

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

CANONS (_singing_).

Jacta tonitrua
Deus bellator!
Surgas e tenebris,
Sis vindicator!
Fulmina, fulmina
Deus vastator!

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

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

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

Equus cum equite
Praecipitatur.

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

Illorum scelera
Poena sequatur!

STIGAND. Truth!