Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (263 page)

XX.

Far distant rose those walls upon the light,
The stately walls, with tapestry richly dight,
Of th’ Abbot’s Banquet-hall, where, as on throne,
He sat at the high dais, like prince, alone,
Save when a Royal guest came here,
Or Papal Legate claimed a chair.
Here marble platforms, flight o’er flight,
Slow rising through the long-lined view,
Showed tables, spread at different height,
Where each for different rank he knew.
And, with pleased glance, adown the hall,
Saw Bishops in their far-sought palle,
The Abbey’s noble Seneschal,
Barons and Earls, in gold array,
And warrior Knights, in harneys grey.
There was the Prior’s delegated sway.
The grave Archdeacon sat below,
And th’ hundred Monks, in row and row;
Not robed in dismal sable they
Upon a high and festal day,
But all in copes most costly and most gay.
There, too, the Abbey-Marshal shone,
And there, beside the Abbot’s throne,
CHAPLAIN OF HONOUR from the Pope, alone.

XXI.

Thus the Lord-Abbot, were he proud,
Might muse upon the chequered crowd;
Nor always did his mind disdain
The worldly honours, though so vain.
His board with massive plate was laid,
And rare inventions it displayed;
Each sewer-monk his homage paid
With bended knee and bowed head,
And Latin verse, half sung, half said
On every platform, as he rose
Through the long hall to it’s high close,
Where frankincense from golden urns
In light wreath round the Abbot burns.
The chaunted Latin grace was sung
With pomp of instruments, that rung
The arched roofs and screens among.
And, when a Royal guest was there,
The Abbot, rising from his chair,
Blessed, with spread hands, the ordered feast,
While reverend stood each princely guest,
And far adown the hall might see
Knights, Bishops, Earls, on bended knee.

XXII.

And when came up, at old Yule-tide,
The boar’s head, trimmed with garlands gay,
With shining holly’s scarlet pride,
And the sweet-scented rosemary,
O! then what merry carols rung,
What choral lays the minstrels sung!
Marching before it through the hall,
Led by the stately Seneschal.
This was the joyous minstrel’s call,
In Leonine with English strung:
“
CAPUT APRI DEFERO.

*

“The boar’s head in hand bring I
“With garlands gay and rosemary;
“I pray you, all sing merrily,
“
QUI ESTIS IN CONVIVIO.
”

XXIII.

Then, every voice in chorus joined
Of those who sat in festal row.
You might have heard it on the wind —
Heard it o’er hills of desert snow.
Thence might be seen, in vale below,
Through windows of that Banquet-hall,
The mighty YULE-CLOUGH blazing clear,
And the Yule-Tapers, huge and tall,
Lighting the roofs with timely cheer.
But, ere a few brief hours were sped,
The blaze was gone — the guests were fled.
And heavy was the Winter’s sigh,
As those lone walls it passed by.

XXIV.

Now, ere the Abbot’s feast began,
Or yet appeared the crane and swan,
The solemn Carver, with his keen
Knife, and well armed with napkins clean,
Scarf-wise athwart his shoulder placed,
And on each arm and round his waist,
Came, led by Marshal, to the dais.
There every trencher he assays,
O’er the GREAT SALT makes flourishes,
Touches each spoon and napkin fair.
Assaying whether ill lurk there,
Ere he present it to his lord,
Or offer IT AT THE REWARDE.
The Sewer, half-kneeling on his way,
Of every dish receives assaye
At the high board, as guard from guile,
The Marshal waiting by the while,
And ancient carols rising slow
From the young Choir and Monks below.
And thus, as every course came on,
These pomps an awful reverence won.

XXV.

Soon as the last high course was o’er,
The Chaplain from the cupboard bore,
With viands from the tables stored,
The ALMS-DISH to the Abbot’s board,
And ample loaf, and gave it thence,
With due form and good countenance,
That th’ Almoner might it dispense.
Next came the Cup-bearers, with wine,
Malmsey and golden metheglin,
With spice-cake and with wafers fine.
This o’er, when surnaps all were drawn,
And solemn grace again was sung,
Came golden ewer and bason, borne
In state to the high board along.

XXVI.

But, at high tide, ere all was past,
Marched the huge Wassail-bowl the last,
Obedient to the Abbot’s call,
Borne by the Steward of the hall;
The Marshal with his wand before
And streamers gay and rosemary,
And Ghoral carols sounding o’er.
‘Twas set beside the father’s dais,
Where oft the Deacon, in his place,
Who bearer of the grace-cup was,
Filled high the cordial Hippocras
From out that bowl of spicery,
And served the Abbot on his knee;
Then, sent around to every board
This farewell-wassail from his lord.
The Abbot, tasting of the wine,
Rose from his chair, in wonted sign
The feast was o’er; yet stood awhile
In cheerful converse with high guest,
Who from the tables round him pressed
Then, with a kind and gracious smile.
The wassail and the hoard he blessed,
Ere yet he left the gorgeous scene,
And sought the tranquil shade within.

XXVII.

Here, with proud grace, did Wolsey stand,
Signing forth blessings with his hand,
And oft the grace-cup had allowed
To move among the willing crowd.
Grandeur sat on his steadfast brow,
‘Mid high Imagination’s glow;
He seemed to feel himself the lord
Of all who sat beside his board,
And, whether Peer, or Prince, or King,
‘Twas meet to him they homage bring;
And homage willed they, since his pride
Had genius, judgement, taste, for guide.
Which held it in such fine control,
Pride seemed sublimity of soul.

XXVIII.

Short while the Abbot d d repose,
When he had left the Banquet-hall;
For soon, where his arched chamber rose,
Would other pageant-scenes disclose
On days of convent festival.
Here, on the Martyr’s annual feast
When Obits at his shrine had ceased;
When GIVE-ALE and the DOLE were o’er;
When Robin Hood had left his bower,
And in the Convent’s spacious court
The morrice-dancers ceased their sport,
And on the rout was closed the Abbey-door;
Then torch and taper, blazing clear
Within the Abbot’s evening room,
Banished the heavy, wintry gloom;
And Mysteries were acted here.
Then, Chronicle of Kings, pourtrayed
From England’s story, long gone by,
In mimic garb and scene arrayed
Awoke the brethren’s solemn sigh;
Such as we breathe o’er these, our theme,
Whelmed in the ever-passing stream.

XXIX.

Here, too, the Minstrels’ chaunted song
Told of their sainted Alban’s fate;
But, oft the measure wound along
With tales of Chivalry’s high state,
Of knights, of ladies and of love,
Ambition’s eagle, Beauty’s dove,
And many a lay of Holy Land,
Of Richard’s and of Edward’s band.
The harpers, in the noble train
Of Abbey guest, oft joined the strain;
And, as they woke with fire the lay,
Or bade it’s moving grief decay,
Each silent monk, with look attent,
His head, unhooded, thoughtful, bent.
Then might you watch, in the stern eye,
The busy, fretful passions die,
Such as in gloom and loneness dwell,
Gnawing the bosom’s vital cell,
And spreading poison through the soul,
That yields to their malign control.

XXX.

‘Twas sweet the softened mind to trace
Beaming upon time-hardened face,
Won by still harmony to rest;
And all unconscious of the tear,
That, stranger to such brow severe,
Upon the closing eyelid pressed.
But sweeter ‘twas to mark the smile
Of the blind Minstrel o’er the strings;
Darkness, nor want, he knows the while,
As wide the storied verse he flings;
For Music can all wants beguile,
With bright perception chase his night,
And can awake that glow of heart,
Affection’s dearest smiles impart;
For Music is — the blind man’s light!
The beam, that does to mental ray
Image and sentiment display,
The world of passion, living thought,
All that the mind through sight ere sought.
Then sigh not, that he dwells in night,
For he hath Music for his light!

XXXI.

This vaulted chamber once was lined
With arras rich, where stood combined
The story of Cologne’s Three Kings,
With other far-famed ancient things.
Yet oft, on solemn festival,
A deeper tale spoke from the wall,
Such as might aid the mimic show
Enacted on the scene below;
Where the raised platform, near the BAY,
Served well for stage. That oriel gay
Rose with light leaves and columns tall,
Mid roial glass and fretwork small;
While tripod lamps from the coved roof
Showed well each painted mask aloof,
Lanfranc and Saxon Edward there,
Watching the scene they once could share.

XXXII.

That oriel shed bright influence
And charm, by its magnificence,
On all there told by eye, or tongue,
Morality, or Mystery,
Or Founder’s boon, or History.
In front, the velvet curtain, flung
In folds aside, not then for shade,
Or shelter, as when winds invade,
Made graceful ornament between
The roof and the fictitious scene.
How different from this festal grace,
How fit it’s blandishments to chase,
Were the long vistas, ranging here
Of the Great Cloister’s pillared square.

XXXIII.

And when could festal joy e’er vie
With the calm rapture of the sigh
Breathed in that Cloister’s solemn shade,
When the lone monk would muse and read,
And meditate on ancient lore,
Or view the warrior on his tomb,
With raised hands seeming to implore
Of Heaven a mitigated doom?
So shaded would such figure lie,
Tall arches pointing o’er the head,
That, though a window, placed on high,
It’s gleam through distant colours shed, —
So dim would lie in shades below,
That, whether living shape, or dead,
The monk, who gazed, might hardly know.
And often, at the midnight-watch,
(The shrine-watch in the aisle beside)
His ear attent low sound would catch,
That stole along the tomb and died,
As though he had some holy word
In whisper from the marble heard!

Followed a stillness all profound;
Was it some spirit from the ground
That breathed a spell of death around?
If the monk watched some little space,
Life would seem trembling o’er the face!
The pallid stone would change it’s hue,
And tremble to his doubting view!

XXXIV.

Gone is that Cloister’s shadowy walk,
Where the more aged would pace and talk,
Or, resting in the well-carved nook,
Leisurely read the rare LENT BOOK,
Turning each page with reverend care.
Th’ illuminator’s work to spare;
Or tell some legend of a saint,
Or allegory, little worth,
Of monkish virtues pictured forth
In leonine, of Latin quaint.
Whate’er it were, ‘twas fine repose,
In cloister-shade, at evening close,
To lean along that oaken seat,
And, all enwrapt in quiet gloom,
Hear the still Vesper, rising sweet
From sainted Oswyn’s shrine and tomb,
Or Obit from the chantry near
Of the good Abbot Delamere,
Swell faint and die upon the ear.
And solemn ‘twas and sweet, the while,
To mark upon some distant aisle,
Seen through deep arch of transept-door,
The streaming torchlight break the shade,
Strike the tall arches over head,
Or, slanting low that long aisle o’er,
Show, some dim sepulchre before,
The lonely, duteous mourner there,
Kneeling and veiled in watch of prayer.

XXXV.

There, ranged around in silent guard,
Seventeen kings yet watch and ward
The good Duke Humphrey’s mouldering form,
Here rescued from the earthly storm,
Raised by a rival — now a worm!
And, when the midnight chaunts were still,
Strange sounds the vault below would fill.
A ghastly shade, with mitred head,
Has stalked, that lonely tomb around,
And knelt upon the honoured ground,
With hands upon its white palle spread,
In seeming prayer and penance lost;
‘Twas guessed this was a murderer’s ghost,
Condemned to wander round the grave
Of him, whom kindness could not save.
There were, who in that shade could see
(Or ‘twas the moonbeam’s mockery)
Beaufort of cruel memory!
Such look as dying he had shown,
When hope of Heaven he did not own,
And Horror stared beside his bed;
Such grisly look this visage had.

XXVI.

And, at such hour, was sometimes seen,
Veiled in thin shadowy weeds of woe,
The image of a stately Queen,
Near the cold marble pacing slow.
The crown upon her hair gleamed faint,
And more of heroine than saint
Was drawn upon her lofty brow.
The proud, heroic graces there,
The grandeur of her step and air,
No softer charms of pity share.
Alas! that such commanding mind
Were not with truth and mercy joined!
Now, were her look, her eye of lire,
That once could warlike bands inspire,
Dimmed with the tear of vain remorse:
Far less had been a kingdom’s loss,
Than loss of holy innocence;
So said her fixed and anguished countenance.

XXXVII.

But Margaret’s moan, nor Beaufort’s word,
Was heard at Vesper’s hallowed hour
To musing monk, in cloister-bower;
Pious sounds alone he heard,
And listened oft, with saintly smile,
When Autumn’s gale swept o’er the aisle,
And bore the swelling hymn away
Up to the realms of heavenly day!
But, when the fitful gust was gone,
Rose that strain with a sweeter tone;
The hymn of Peace it seemed to be —
Her hushed and meekest minstrelsy —
Her welcome to the Just, when free
From this short world of misery.
The monk, who listened, many a still tear shed,
By trembling Hope and blessed Pity fed;
The listener’s self how soon among the dead!