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Madam, you have but cut the canvas out : We can replace it.

Mary. All is well then ; restI will to rest ; he said, I must have rest.

[Cries of Elizabeth' in the street. A cry! What's that ? Elizabeth ? revolt? A new Northumberland, another Wyatt? I'll fight it on the threshold of the grave. Lady Clarence. Madam, your royal

sister comes to see you. Mary. I will not see her. Who knows if Boleyn's daughter be my

sister? I will see none except the priest. Your

arm. [To Lady Clarence. O Saint of Aragon, with that sweet worn

smile Among thy patient wrinkles—Help me hence.

(Exeunt.

The Priest passes. Enter ELIZABETH

and SIR WILLIAM CECIL.

Remember that! 'twas I and Bonner did

it, And Pole; we are three to one-Have

you found mercy there, Grant it me here : and see, he smiles and

goes, Gentle as in life. Alice. Madam, who goes? King

Philip?
Mary. No, Philip comes and goes,

but never goes. Women, when I am dead, Open my heart, and there you will find

written Two names, Philip and Calais ; open

his,So that he have one, You will find Philip only, policy,

policy, Ay, worse than that-not one hour true

to me! Foul maggots crawling in a fester'd vice ! Adulterous to the very heart of Hell. Hast thou a knife ? Alice. Ay, Madam, but o'God's

mercyMary. Fool, think’st thou I would

peril mine own soul By slaughter of the body? I could not,

girl, Not this way-callous with a constant

stripe, Unwoundable. The knife ! Alice.

Take heed, take heed ! The blade is keen as death. Mary.

This Philip shall not Stare in upon me in my haggardness; Old, miserable, diseased, Incapable of children. Come thou down. [Cuts out the picture and throws it down. Lie there. (Wails) O God, I have

kill'd my Philip! Alice.

No,

Elizabeth. Good counsel yours

No one in waiting ? still, As if the chamberlain were Death himself ! The room she sleeps in—is not this the

way? No, that way there are voices. Am

too late ? Cecil . . . God guide me lest I lose the way.

[Exit Elizabeth. Cecil. Many points weather'd, many

perilous ones, At last a harbour opens ; but therein Sunk rocks—they need fine steering

much it is To be nor mad, nor bigot-have a mindNor let Priests' talk, or dream of worlds

to be, Miscolour things about her-sudden

touches For him, or him—sunk rocks; no

passionate faith

But—if let be-balance and compromise ; Brave, wary, sane to the heart of her-a

Tudor Schoold by the shadow of death-a

Boleyn, too, Glancing across the Tudor-not so well.

Enter ALICE. How is the good Queen now? Alice.

Away from Philip. Back in her childhood-prattling to her

mother Of her betrothal to the Emperor Charles, And childlike-jealous of him again-and

once She thank'd her father sweetly for his book Against that godless German. Ah, those

days Were happy. It was never merry world In England, since the Bible came among

Pray'd me to pay her debts, and keep the

Faith; Then claspt the cross, and pass'd away

in peace. I left her lying still and beautiful, More beautiful than in life. Why would

you vex yourself, Poor sister? Sir, I swear I have no heart To be your Queen. To reign is restless

fence, Tierce, quart, and trickery. Peace is with

the dead. Her life was winter, for her spring was

nipt : And she loved much : pray God she be

forgiven. Cecil. Peace with the dead, who never

were at peace! Yet she loved one so much-I needs must

sayThat never English monarch dying left England so little.

Elizabeth. But with Cecil's aid And others, if our person be secured From traitor stabs—we will make England

great.

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Cecil. And who says that?
Alice. It is a saying among the

Catholics.
Cecil. It never will be merry world in

England, Till all men have their Bible, rich and

poor.
Alice. The Queen is dying, or you
dare not say it.

Enter ELIZABETH.
Elizabeth. The Queen is dead.
Cecil. Then here she stands ! my

homage.
Elizabeth. She knew me, and ac-

knowledged me her heir,

Enter PAGET, and other LORDS OF THE

COUNCIL, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, &c.

Lords. God save Elizabeth, the Queen

of England ! Bagenhall. God save the Crown ! the

Papacy is no more. Paget (aside). Are we so sure of

that? Acclamation. God save the Queen !

HAROLD:

A DRAMA.

To His ExCELLENCY
THE RIGHT HON. LORD LYTTON,

Viceroy and Governor-General of India. MY DEAR LORD LYTTON,-After old-world records—such as the Bayeux tapestry and the Roman de Rou,-Edward Freeman's History of the Norman Conquest, and your father's Historical Romance treating of the same times, have been mainly helpful to me in writing this Drama. Your father dedicated his ‘Harold' to my father's brother; allow me to dedicate my 'Harold' to yourself.

A. TENNYSON.

SHOW-DAY AT BATTLE ABBEY, 1876.
A GARDEN here—May breath and bloom of spring-
The cuckoo yonder from an English elm
Crying with my false egg I overwhelm
The native nest :' and fancy hears the ring
Of harness, and that deathful arrow sing,
And Saxon battleaxe clang on Norman helm.
Here rose the dragon-banner of our realm :
Here fought, here fell, our Norman-slander'd king.
O Garden blossoming out of English blood !
O strange hate-healer Time! We stroll and stare
Where might made right eight hundred years ago ;
Might, right ? ay good, so all things make for good-
But he and he, if soul be soul, are where
Each stands full face with all he did below.

DRAMATIS PERSONA.
KING EDWARD THE CONFESSOR.
STIGAND, created Archbishop of Canterbury by the Antipope Benedict.
ALDRED, Archbishop of York.

The NORMAN BISHOP OF LONDON.
HAROLD, Earl of Wessex, afterwards King of England
TOSTIG, Earl of Northumbria
GURTH, Earl of East Anglia

| Sons of

Godwin.
LEOFWIN, Earl of Kent and Essex
WULFNOTH
Count WILLIAM OF NORMANDY.

William Rufus.
William MALET, a Norman Noble. *
EDWIN, Earl of Mercia

| Sons of Alfgar of
MORCAR, Earl of Northumbria after Tostig ! Mercia.
Gamel, a Northumbrian Thane.

Guy, Count of Ponthieu.
ROLF, a Ponthieu Fisherman.

HUGH MARGOT, a Norman Monk.
OsGoD and ATHELRIC, Canons from Waltham.
THE QUEEN, Edwand the Confessor's Wife, Daughter of Godwin.
ALDWYTH, Daughter of Alfgar and Widow of Griffyth, King of Wales.
EDITH, Ward of King Edward.
Courtiers, Earls and Thanes, Men-at-Arms, Canons of Waltham, Fishermen, &c.

*. . . quidam partim Normannus et Anglus
Compater Heraldi. (Guy of Amiens, 587.)

I think that they would Molochize them

too, To have the heavens clear.

Aldwyth. They fright not me. (Finter LEOFWIN, after him GURTH.) Ask thou Lord Leofwin what he thinks .

of this! Morcar. Lord Leofwin, dost thou

believe, that these Three rods of blood-red fire up yonder

mean

ACT I. SCENE I.-LONDON. THE King's

PALACE. (A comet seen through the open window.) ALDWYTH, GAMEL, Courtiers talking

together. First Courtier. Lo! there once more

- this is the seventh night! Yon grimly-glaring, treble - brandish'd

: scourge Of England !

Second Courtier. Horrible !

First Courtier. Look you, there's a star That dances in it as mad with agony ! Third Courtier. Ay, like a spirit in

Hell who skips and flies To right and left, and cannot scape the

flame. Second Courtier. Steam'd upward

from the undescendable Abysm. First Courtier. Or floated downward

from the throne Of God Almighty.

Aldwyth. Gamel, son of Orm, What thinkest thou this means ? Gamel.

War, my dear lady! Aldwyth. Doth this affright thee? Gamel. Mightily, my dear lady! Aldwyth. Stand by me then, and look

upon my face, Not on the comet.

(Enter MORCAR.)

Brother ! why so pale? Morcar. It glares in heaven, it flares

upon the Thames, The people are as thick as bees below, They hum like bees, --they cannot speak

--for awe; Look to the skies, then to the river, strike Their hearts, and hold their babies up to it.

The doom of England and the wrath of

Heaven?
Bishop of London (passing). Did ye

not cast with bestial violence Our holy Norman bishops down from all Their thrones in England? I alone

remain. Why should not Heaven be wroth? Leofwin.

With us, or thee? Bishop of London. Did ye not outlaw

your archbishop Robert, Robert of Jumiéges—well-nigh murder

him too? Is there no reason for the wrath of

Heaven?
Leofwin. Why then the wrath of

Heaven hath three tails,
The devil only one.

[Exit Bishop of London. (Enter ARCHBISHOP STIGAND.)

Ask our Archbishop. Stigand should know the purposes of

Heaven.
Stigand. Not I. I cannot read the

face of heaven; Perhaps our vines will grow the better for

Leofwin (laughing). He can but read

the king's face on his coins. Stigand. Ay, ay, young lord, there the

king's face is power.

Gurth. O father, mock not at a public

fear, But tell us, is this pendent hell in heaven A harm to England?

Stigand. Ask it of King Edward ! And he may tell thee, I am a harm to

England. Old uncanonical Stigand—ask of me Who had my pallium from an Antipope ! Not he the man – for in our windy

world What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. Our friends, the Normans, holp to shake

his chair. I have a Norman fever on me, son, And cannot answer sanely . . . What it

means ? Ask our broad Earl.

[Pointing to HAROLD, who enters. Harold (seeing Gamel). Hail, Gamel,

son of Orm! Albeit no rolling stone, my good friend

Gamel, Thou hast rounded since we met. Thy

life at home Is easier than mine here. Look! am I

not
Work-wan, flesh-fallen?

Gamel. Art thou sick, good Earl?
Harold. Sick as an autumn swallow

for a voyage, Sick for an idle week of hawk and hound Beyond the seas—a change! When

camest thou hither?
Gamel. To-day, good Earl.
Harold. Is the North quiet, Gamel?
Gamel. Nay, there be murmurs, for

thy brother breaks us
With over-taxing-quiet, ay, as yet-
Nothing as yet.
Harold. Stand by him, mine old

friend, Thou art a great voice in Northumberland !

Advise him : speak him sweetly, he will

hear thee. He is passionate but honest. Stand thou

by him! . More talk of this to-morrow, if yon weird

sign Not blast us in our dreams. -Well, father

Stigand

[To Stigand, who advances to him. Stigand (pointing to the comet). War

there, my son? is that the doom

of England ? Harold. Why not the doom of all the

world as well ? For all the world sees it as well as Eng

land. These meteors came and went before our

day, Not harming any: it threatens us no more Than French or Norman. War? the

worst that follows Things that seem jerk'd out of the common

rut

Of Nature is the hot religious fool,
Who, seeing war in heaven, for heaven's

credit Makes it on earth : but look, where

Edward draws A faint foot hither, leaning upon Tostig. He hath learnt to love our Tostig much

of late. Leofwin. And he hath learnt, despite

the tiger in him, To sleek and supple himself to the king's

hand. Gurth. I trust the kingly touch that

cures the evil May serve to charm the tiger out of him. Leofwin. He hath as much of cat as

tiger in him. Our Tostig loves the hand and not the

man. Harold. Nay! Better die than lie !

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