EDWARD. The green tree! Then a great Angel past along the highest Crying 'the doom of England,' and at once He stood beside me, in his grasp a sword Of lightnings, wherewithal he cleft the tree From off the bearing trunk, and hurl'd it from him Three fields away, and then he dash'd and drench'd, He dyed, he soak'd the trunk with human blood, And brought the sunder'd tree again, and set it Straight on the trunk, that thus baptized in blood Grew ever high and higher, beyond my seeing, And shot out sidelong boughs across the deep That dropt themselves, and rooted in far isles Beyond my seeing: and the great Angel rose And past again along the highest crying 'The doom of England!'--Tostig, raise my head! [_Falls back senseless_. HAROLD (_raising him_). Let Harold serve for Tostig! _QUEEN_. Harold served Tostig so ill, he cannot serve for Tostig! Ay, raise his head, for thou hast laid it low! The sickness of our saintly king, for whom My prayers go up as fast as my tears fall, I well believe, hath mainly drawn itself From lack of Tostig--thou hast banish'd him. HAROLD. Nay--but the council, and the king himself. QUEEN. Thou hatest him, hatest him. HAROLD (_coldly_). Ay--Stigand, unriddle This vision, canst thou? STIGAND. Dotage! EDWARD (_starting up_). It is finish'd. I have built the Lord a house--the Lord hath dwelt In darkness. I have built the Lord a house-- Palms, flowers, pomegranates, golden cherubim With twenty-cubit wings from wall to wall-- I have built the Lord a house--sing, Asaph! clash The cymbal, Heman! blow the trumpet, priest! Fall, cloud, and fill the house--lo! my two pillars, Jachin and Boaz!-- [_Seeing_ HAROLD _and_ GURTH. Harold, Gurth,--where am I? Where is the charter of our Westminster? STIGAND. It lies beside thee, king, upon thy bed. EDWARD. Sign, sign at once--take, sign it, Stigand, Aldred! Sign it, my good son Harold, Gurth, and Leofwin, Sign it, my queen! ALL. We have sign'd it. EDWARD. It is finish'd! The kingliest Abbey in all Christian lands, The lordliest, loftiest minster ever built To Holy Peter in our English isle! Let me be buried there, and all our kings, And all our just and wise and holy men That shall be born hereafter. It is finish'd! Hast thou had absolution for thine oath? [_To_ HAROLD. HAROLD. Stigand hath given me absolution for it. EDWARD. Stigand is not canonical enough To save thee from the wrath of Norman Saints. STIGAND. Norman enough! Be there no Saints of England To help us from their brethren yonder? EDWARD. Prelate, The Saints are one, but those of Normanland Are mightier than our own. Ask it of Aldred. [_To_ HAROLD.