Our axes lighten with a single flash
About the summit of the hill, and heads
And arms are sliver'd off and splinter'd by
Their lightning--and they fly--the Norman flies.
EDITH. Stigand, O father, have we won the day?
STIGAND. No, daughter, no--they fall behind the horse--
Their horse are thronging to the barricades;
I see the gonfanon of Holy Peter
Floating above their helmets--ha! he is down!
EDITH. He down! Who down?
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.
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