BECKET

LORD TENNYSON

HENRY II. was not only a valiant soldier but an able king. The long struggle for the crown had reduced England to a state of anarchy. Henry came to the throne pledged to restore order. He met a serious obstacle in the claim of the church that a priest might not be punished for crime by the civil authorities. Thomas Becket, chancellor of the realm and Henry's closest friend, was appointed Archbishop of Canterbury in the expectation that he would aid in bringing the clergy under the royal jurisdiction. Becket, however, stood by "the honor of his order," and refused to give his official sanction to the document defining the power of the king's courts respecting the clergy. The controversy ripened into open quarrel. Becket fled to the Continent, but was lured back to England by the hope of reconciliation. On December 29, 1170, he was foully murdered in Canterbury Cathedral by four knights, who were impelled to the deed by some angry words of the king. Henry was forced to do penance for his part in the crime, and Becket was canonized as a saint and martyr. Yet the king was right in his belief that there could be no true justice in England till all men were equal before the law.

ACT I

SCENE I. Becket's House in London. Chamber barely furnished. Becket unrobing. Herbert of Bosham and Servant.

Becket.

Am I the man?

That rang

Within my head last night, and when I slept
Methought I stood in Canterbury Minster,
And spake to the Lord God, and said, “O Lord,
I have been a lover of wines, and delicate meats,
And secular splendors, and a favorer

Of players, and a courtier, and a feeder

Of dogs and hawks, and apes, and lions, and lynxes.

Am I the man?"

And the Lord answer'd me,
"Thou art the man, and all the more the man.'
And then I asked again, "O Lord my God,
Henry the King hath been my friend, my brother,
And mine uplifter in this world, and chosen me
For this thy great archbishoprick, believing
That I should go against the Church with him,
And I shall go against him with the Church,
And I have said no word of this to him:

Am I the man?" And the Lord answer'd me,
"Thou art the man, and all the more the man."
And thereupon, methought, He drew toward me,
And smote me down upon the Minster floor.
I fell.

Arch

SCENE III. Hall in Northampton Castle. bishops, bishops, and barons assembled in council. (Enter King Henry.)

Henry. Where's Thomas? hath he signed? show me the papers!

Sign'd and not seal'd! How's that?

John of Oxford.

He would not seal.

And when he sign'd, his face was stormy-red

Shame, wrath, I know not what. He sat down there
And dropt it in his hands, and then a paleness,
Like the wan twilight after sunset, crept
Up even to the tonsure, and he groan'd,
"False to myself! It is the will of God!"

Henry. God's will be what it will, the man shall seal, Or I will seal his doom. My burgher's son

Nay, if I cannot break him as the prelate,
I'll crush him as the subject. Send for him back.
(Sits on his throne.)

Barons and bishops of our realm of England,
After the nineteen winters of King Stephen
A reign which was no reign, when none could sit
By his own hearth in peace; when murder common
As nature's death, like Egypt's plague, had fill'd
All things with blood; when every doorway blush'd,
Dash'd red with that unhallow'd passover;
When every baron ground his blade in blood;
The household dough was kneaded up with blood;
The millwheel turn'd in blood; the wholesome plough
Lay rusting in the furrow's yellow weeds,
Till famine dwarft the race-I came, your King!
Nor dwelt alone, like a soft lord of the East,
In mine own hall, and sucking thro' fools' ears
The flatteries of corruption-went abroad
Thro' all my counties, spied my people's ways;
Yea, heard the churl against the baron — yea,
And did him justice; sat in mine own courts
Judging my judges, that had found a King
Who ranged confusions, made the twilight day,
And struck a shape from out the vague, and law
From madness. And the event our fallows till'd,
Much corn, repeopled towns, a realm again.
So far my course, albeit not glassy-smooth,
Had prosper'd in the main, but suddenly
Jarr'd on this rock. A cleric violated

The daughter of his host, and murder'd him.

F

Ye haled this tonsured devil into your courts;

But since your canon will not let you take

Life for a life, ye but degraded him

Where I had hang'd him. What doth hard murder care For degradation? and that made me muse,

Being bounden by my coronation oath

To do men justice. Look to it, your own selves!
Say that a cleric murder'd an archbishop,

What could ye do?
Not death for death.

John of Oxford.

To death for death.
Henry.

Degrade, imprison him—

But I, my liege, could swear

And, looking thro' my reign,

I found a hundred ghastly murders done
By men, the scum and offal of the Church;
Then, glancing thro' the story of this realm,
I came on certain wholesome usages,
Lost in desuetude, of my grandsire's day,
Good royal customs-had them written fair
For John of Oxford here to read to you.

Co-mates we were, and had our sport together,
Co-kings we were, and made the laws together.
The world had never seen the like before.
You are too cold to know the fashion of it.

Well, well, we will be gentle with him, gracious —

Most gracious.

(Enter Becket).

Only that the rift he made

May close between us, here I am wholly king,

The word should come from him.

Becket (kneeling).

Then, my dear liege,

I here deliver all this controversy
Into your royal hands.

Henry.

Ah, Thomas, Thomas,

Thou art thyself again, Thomas again.

Becket (rising). Saving God's honor!

LAMENT OF RICHARD DURING HIS IMPRISONMENT

TRANSLATED FROM THE PROVENÇAL BY W. E. AYTOUN

RICHARD I., the Lion Heart, son and successor of Henry II., was hardly an English king. During the ten years of his reign (1189-1199), he passed but five months in England. He was a prince of warlike and adventurous spirit, and spent his best energies and all the treasure he could wring from his unfortunate subjects on a crusade for the deliverance of Jerusalem. Returning from this fruitless enterprise, he was wrecked on the Adriatic coast, taken prisoner by the Duke of Austria, and held for ransom. The sum of money demanded was raised with great difficulty, and Richard was released after two years of captivity. The tradition that he composed this prison-song during his confinement in the Austrian castle of Durrenstein has no improbability in it, for Richard was an accomplished lyrist.

I

If one in prison may not tell his wrong
Without derision or the chance of blame,