HORATIO Now cracks a noble heart. Goodnight, sweet Prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Why does the drum come hither? (5.2.343-345)
Oh, Horatio. He might as well be talking about himself, that greatness of heart, except he’d never be so self-aggrandising. Now cracks a noble heart. Everything’s broken now, that crack is cataclysmic, definitive. But it’s also got a note of defiance, yes, Hamlet was noble, he was, even if he made stupid choices and hurt people and did bad things. He had a big heart, a good heart. Goodnight, sweet Prince—for you were a prince, and you were my friend, I loved you, you could be so lovely. You can sleep now, soundly, sweetly—and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. It’s a moment of transcendence, beauty, music, light (heard in flight), of a willed apotheosis, a rising or raising up, full of defiant hope. And it’s addressed to Hamlet, not to anyone else, a final expression of love; I can’t find more words, let alone sing you asleep—you were the one with all the words, the poet, the playwright—so I’ll leave it to the angels. Sleep now. Here, in my arms, and in heaven.
So why does the drum come hither? is not merely a request for information but a kind of bewilderment: how dare anything intrude on this intimate, terrible moment? Horatio hasn’t taken in anything about Fortinbras, it seems; his only thoughts have been for his dying friend Hamlet; he has had only eyes and ears for him. How can anything else happen now?
