Chapter 23

_A Gallery on one side. The moonlight streaming through a range of windows on the wall opposite_. MARY, LADY CLARENCE, LADY MAGDALEN DACRES, ALICE. QUEEN _pacing the Gallery. A writing table in front_. QUEEN _comes to the table and writes and goes again, pacing the Gallery_.

LADY CLARENCE. Mine eyes are dim: what hath she written? read.

ALICE. 'I am dying, Philip; come to me.'

LADY MAGDALEN. There--up and down, poor lady, up and down.

ALICE. And how her shadow crosses one by one The moonlight casements pattern'd on the wall, Following her like her sorrow. She turns again.

[QUEEN _sits and writes, and goes again_.

LADY CLARENCE. What hath she written now?

ALICE. Nothing; but 'come, come, come,' and all awry, And blotted by her tears. This cannot last.

[QUEEN _returns_.

MARY. I whistle to the bird has broken cage, And all in vain. [_Sitting down_. Calais gone--Guisnes gone, too--and Philip gone!

LADY CLARENCE. Dear Madam, Philip is but at the wars; I cannot doubt but that he comes again; And he is with you in a measure still. I never look'd upon so fair a likeness As your great King in armour there, his hand Upon his helmet. [_Pointing to the portrait of Philip on the wall_.

MARY. Doth he not look noble? I had heard of him in battle over seas, And I would have my warrior all in arms. He said it was not courtly to stand helmeted Before the Queen. He had his gracious moment, Altho' you'll not believe me. How he smiles As if he loved me yet!

LADY CLARENCE. And so he does.

MARY. He never loved me--nay, he could not love me. It was his father's policy against France. I am eleven years older than he, Poor boy! [_Weeps_.

ALICE. That was a lusty boy of twenty-seven; [_Aside_. Poor enough in God's grace!

MARY. --And all in vain! The Queen of Scots is married to the Dauphin, And Charles, the lord of this low world, is gone; And all his wars and wisdoms past away: And in a moment I shall follow him.

LADY CLARENCE. Nay, dearest Lady, see your good physician.

MARY. Drugs--but he knows they cannot help me--says That rest is all--tells me I must not think-- That I must rest--I shall rest by and by. Catch the wild cat, cage him, and when he springs And maims himself against the bars, say 'rest': Why, you must kill him if you would have him rest-- Dead or alive you cannot make him happy.

LADY CLARENCE. Your Majesty has lived so pure a life, And done such mighty things by Holy Church, I trust that God will make you happy yet.

MARY. What is the strange thing happiness? Sit down here: Tell me thine happiest hour.

LADY CLARENCE. I will, if that May make your Grace forget yourself a little. There runs a shallow brook across our field For twenty miles, where the black crow flies five, And doth so bound and babble all the way As if itself were happy. It was May-time, And I was walking with the man I loved. I loved him, but I thought I was not loved. And both were silent, letting the wild brook Speak for us--till he stoop'd and gather'd one From out a bed of thick forget-me-nots, Look'd hard and sweet at me, and gave it me. I took it, tho' I did not know I took it, And put it in my bosom, and all at once I felt his arms about me, and his lips--

MARY. O God! I have been too slack, too slack; There are Hot Gospellers even among our guards-- Nobles we dared not touch. We have but burnt The heretic priest, workmen, and women and children. Wet, famine, ague, fever, storm, wreck, wrath,-- We have so play'd the coward; but by God's grace, We'll follow Philip's leading, and set up The Holy Office here--garner the wheat, And burn the tares with unquenchable fire! Burn!-- Fie, what a savour! tell the cooks to close The doors of all the offices below. Latimer! Sir, we are private with our women here-- Ever a rough, blunt, and uncourtly fellow-- Thou light a torch that never will go out! 'Tis out--mine flames. Women, the Holy Father Has ta'en the legateship from our cousin Pole-- Was that well done? and poor Pole pines of it, As I do, to the death. I am but a woman, I have no power.--Ah, weak and meek old man, Seven-fold dishonour'd even in the sight Of thine own sectaries--No, no. No pardon! Why that was false: there is the right hand still Beckons me hence. Sir, you were burnt for heresy, not for treason, 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 mercy--

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

MARY. All is well then; rest-- I 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.

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 I 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 mind-- Nor 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 School'd 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 us.

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 acknowledged me her heir, 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 say-- That 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.

_Enter_ PAGET, _and other_ LORDS OF THE COUNCIL, SIR RALPH BAGENHALL, _etc_.

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!

END OF QUEEN MARY.

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 PERSONAE_

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, Son of Godwin_ TOSTIG, _Earl of Northumbria, Son of Godwin_ GURTH, _Earl of East Anglia, Son of Godwin_ LEOFWIN, _Earl of Kent and Essex, Son of Godwin_ WULFNOTH COUNT WILLIAM OF NORMANDY. WILLIAM RUFUS. WILLIAM MALET, _a Norman Noble_.[1] EDWIN, _Earl of Mercia, Son of Alfgar of Mercia_ MORCAR, _Earl of Northumbria after Tostig, Son of Alfgar of 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, _Edward 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, etc.

[Footnote 1: ... quidam partim Normannus et Anglus Compater Heraldi. (_Guy of Amiens_, 587.)]

HAROLD