Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (269 page)

XXI.

Old Leonard led through forest-way,
And pointed where St. Alban’s lay,
With look of grave and anxious thought.
The sun those lofty turrets brought
Full on the eye, that, at their sight,
Sickened and darkened, as in night.
Yes, though she felt the western blaze,
Strange gloom, all cheerless, met her gaze.
She saw the sun — she knew his beam,
Yet seemed in dimness of a dream!
With mingled grief and terror filled,
Her spirits scarce their task fulfilled;
Yet did her will it’s purpose hold,
As might the boldest of the bold.
Right onward, as the path might go,
She pressed, to meet the coming woe.
The fanning air her frame sustained,
And firmly still her steed she reined.
Though on the Abbey-tower her eye
Was fixed — that tower would seem to fly;
For, though at utmost speed she went,
More distant seemed it’s battlement;
And, though she knew her palfrey moved,
That he went forward was not proved.

XXII.

Though true and good the long-loved steed,
His weary limbs relaxed their speed.
He marvelled at the pace she hied,
And would resent the whip she plied,
(Unused to feel the goading pain,
And fretting with a high disdain,)
Had other hand but held the rein.
Often would Leonard now implore
That, till the forest-shades were o’er,
His lady, for his master’s sake,
Some caution for herself would take,
Nor tempt St. Alban’s dangerous wall,
Ere deepest gloom of evening fall.
The sun was yet upon the towers,
And lighted yet her roofs and bowers.

XXIII.

Florence once turned her weary sight,
And, in the landscape’s beamy light,
Viewed the peaked roofs and glittering vane,
Where slept, in peace, her infant-train.
A sigh — the first she long had known —
Burst from her breast, and fell a tear;
But ‘twas not grief she felt, nor fear:
‘Twas desolation, hopeless, drear!
She seemed in this vast world alone;
‘Reft of her joy, her guide, her might,
Even life itself was desert night.

XXIV.

St. Alban’s, onward as they drew,
Spoke fearful symptoms of the war;
Tumultuous murmurs, cries afar,
Wild roar, that distance did subdue;
And oft, from path unseen, was heard
Horse-tramp, or shout, or solemn word;
And heavy sounds of woe and pain
Led to the steps of wounded men,
Unhorsed and plundered of their arms,
And jealous still of new alarms.
These Leonard questioned of the fate
Of friends within St. Alban’s gate,
While Florence, with attention dread,
Apart, in silence, bent her head.
Little he learned; for scant they knew,
‘Wildered in tumult of the fight,
Of what had passed beyond their view;
But in one tale they all unite —
The plundering fury of the foe
On those whom they o’ertake in flight,
And their relentless, coward blow;
All urge the strangers to beware,
Nor Alban’s fatal barrier dare.

XXV.

Then ancient Leonard urged anew
The dangers would her course pursue;
And Florence yielded now her ear,
By truth warned, not by idle fear.
He led where steed might hardly go
Under the stretching, beechen bough,
A scene of deep repose and gloom,
Hushed as some lonely aisle, or tomb —
So hushed, that here the bird of May
Amid the leaves began her lay;
Not the known lay of joyous morn,
But midnight hymn, sad, sweet and lorn;
Yet sometimes, as her cadence fell,
Strange mournful murmurs seemed to swell —
Sounds indistinct and dark, to wail,
Or darkly hint, some dreadful tale.

XXVI.

Sudden, where opening branches yield,
Florence beheld the tented field,
Beneath St. Alban’s walls afar,
Spread with the various lines of war.
Broad, moving masses she might view,
And hurrying bands of gleamy hue
Preparing for the coming night;
And trains of horse, whose armour bright
Flashed radiance to the western light;
And trumpet-signals faint were heard
And far — halloo and shouted word.
All that there lived, seemed strong in strife,
But ‘twas for comforts, not for life —
All that there lived! — alas, that thought!
What strife of hope and fear it brought!
While o’er the scene St. Alban’s tower
Looked sternly on the passing hour.

XXVII.

To this wild scene of war’s array, —
Where busy atoms of a day,
Entrusted with brief rule, had proved
By what slight springs their force is moved,
Opposed — great Nature tranquil lay.
Though on the hills, far to the West,
Dark thunder-shadows awful rest,
There power and grandeur seem combined
With stillness, as of brooding mind.
The purple gloom lay deep and wide,
Save where the umbered splendours glide
Broadly and silent o’er the vale,
And touch with life the forests pale.

XXVIII.

While Florence watched, beneath the shade,
The camp in Key’s-Field now arrayed,
She shrunk, as danger seemed more near,
Yet found impatience conquering fear;
And, urging on a rapid flight,
Ere hindered by advancing night,
She looked, perchance, upon the way,
Where now her dying husband lay!
Urged by such thought, she paused no more;
And, as the Abbey’s guardian roof
Might shield him, should the last be o’er,
There would she seek her first dread proof.

XXIX.

She turned her steed, and gave the rein.
But checked awhile his course again,
As from by-way and near she heard
A slow wheel pressing the green-sward.
It bore, beneath the veiling shade,
Some wounded chieftain lowly laid.
In dread attention Florence sees,
As the light steals through parted trees,
The mute train turn the jutting bank,
(Where the high beech, of silver rind,
Caught the slant sunbeam ere it sank,)
And through the deepening forest wind.
The level radiance, shooting far
Within the shadows, touched that car;
And, glancing o’er a steely crest,
Flushed the wan visage in it pressed.
Too distant fell the slanting light
To bring the features forth to sight;
But played on falchions drawn around,
Guarding their chief o’er dangerous ground
And gleamed upon the silver badge,
Of lofty servitude the pledge.

XXX.

Florence restrained the impulse strong,
That would have forced her to that throng,
And Leonard hastened to explore
Some signal of the Chief they bore,
While she, within the deepest gloom,
Watched, as for sentence of her doom.
She marked, when he o’ertook the chief,
No gesture of surprise, or grief.
Soon, where the broader foliage shed
It’s gloom o’er woodbanks high and steep,
Beyond the warriors’ way there creep
A sandaled group with hooded head,
Silently from the umbrage deep.
This pilgrim-band might scarce be known,
Clad in their amice grey,
From tint of boughs with moss o’ergrown;
But that some clasp, or chainlet shone,
And ruddy tinge their faces own
Of the full Western ray.

XXXI.

As from the pass that shadowy train
Sought Alban’s sheltering aisles to gain,
Unknowing that the war s sad course
Had thither brought Duke Richard’s force,
Sudden, the wounded Chief they meet,
And, doubting, wondering, pitying, greet.
Leonard, while he drew near, o’erheard
The meeting Pilgrim’s hailing word,
And question, on the spreading war,
And who was borne upon the car?
There lay Earl Stafford, wounded sore,
Whom Buckingham must long deplore:
Then prompt good wishes they exchange,
State of the roads and pass declare,
Give news of war, and counsel fair
How best the Pilgrims may arrange
Their distant way, through secret path,
To gain, ere night, some quiet hearth.

XXXII.

Leonard asked tidings of his lord
From all who, round that bleeding car,
Halted with watchful eye and guard.
And various rumours of the war
They told, of chiefs slain, saved, or fled;
Clifford and Henry too were dead:
Brief and unsure was all they said.
Baron Fitzharding? He was slain —
Some told, and some denied again.
Leonard, on mention of his death,
With eager look and trembling breath,
Straight to the Chief himself addressed
His question; who, howe’er distressed,
Upraised with patient courtesy
His languid head, for brief reply: —
“‘Twas said, that, early in the strife,
Fitzharding fell, yielding his life
To Richard’s sword; but then such tale
Should not as certainty prevail;
For those engaged in ardent fight
Know not who falls beyond their sight.”

XXXIII.

Ere yet the hasty talk had passed,
Swelled on the calm a clarion’s blast;
Then sudden and near shout thrilled high,
And pain and terror’s mingled cry.
The Earl gave signal to proceed;
And wishes warm the conference close
For life and health and safe repose.
The car then moved with feeble speed.
Fixed in dismay the Pilgrims stood,
Till Leonard, pointing through the wood,
Told where a little dim path wound,
Remote from Alban’s fatal ground.
Then bent he with the fearful tale
To Florence. How may he prevail
To lead her home? How soothe her woes,
When his dire news he shall disclose?

XXXIV.

While she had watched his steps with doubt,
She heard the faint pursuing shout,
And marked where trailed the distant rout.
But, even here, where all seemed lone,
The dreariness was not her own;
At times came nearer voice, and yell
Of wandering bands, or bugle’s swell
In signal-call, or laughter loud,
Horrid to her, as voice from shroud!
Others there were who shunned the road,
Anxious to reach some safe abode,
Ere yet the brooding tempest fell;
For so the gestures seemed to tell
Of men, who, on the wild heath turned,
And pointing where the red gloom burned,
A moment paused, as if to say
“How dark the storm comes on our way!”

XXXV.

Sudden, while Silence slept around,
Her courser listened, as if sound
Disturbed his watchful ear;
With feet outstretched and rising mane,
Averted head and eyes, that strain,
He gazed, in stiffening fear;
Then reared, and, with a restive bound,
He bore her from that fearful ground,
Ere she had aught perceived for dread,
Or sound had heard, that terror spread.
Vainly she tried to rein her steed;
So docile late, he keeps his speed,
Though now they meet a haggard group,
Who, with fierce gesture and wild whoop,
Would check his rapid flight;
Trying, when near, to snatch the rein;
To chase, when passed; but still in vain;
He bears her from their might.

XXXVI.

Pencil alone may trace such woe
As darkened faithful Leonard’s brow,
When he had reached the oak’s lone gloom
Where Florence dared to meet her doom,
And found her not! But, while around
He searched the close embowered ground,
A form terrific fixed his eyes.
Sheltered within the thickest shade,
There lay a pale and dying head:
In blood an armoured warrior lies!
It was his lowly, faltering groan!
His casque, where a stray light had shone,
And might give glimpse of ghastly face,
Betrayed him to the startled steed;
Who bore his mistress off at speed,
Ere she his cause of fear could trace.

XXXVII.

Ere Leonard, ‘neath the darksome bough,
Might the dead form, or feature, know,
A fearful sound and shrill and high
Upon the rushing breeze went nigh.
A shriek it seemed — again he hears
The voice, that summoned all his fears.
Once more he listened, but the breeze
Rolled lonely o’er the bended trees,
And died, but, as it swelled again,
Brought on it’s tide that note of pain!
Leonard, ere yet the plaint might close,
Turned his good steed the way it rose.

CANTO VI
.

THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

SCENE — WITHIN THE TOWN AND ABBEY OF ST. ALBAN’S.

I.

THOUGH now, within St. Alban’s wall,
Was hushed the turmoil of the day,
The crash of arms, the Chieftain’s call,
The onset shout, the clarion’s bray.
The stillness there was scarce less dread
Of those, who, looking on the dead,
In voice suppressed and trembling spake,
As if they feared the very sound,
Or, that it might disturb, or wake
The victims stretched around.
Yet, sometimes, ‘mid this calm of fear,
Rose sudden cries of woe most drear
For friend or kinsman found.
But, though the slain filled all the ground,
No
brother yet dared brother move,
Or close his eyes with pious love;
And, though amid that ghastly band
Lay chiefs and nobles of the land,
Yet might no man his pity prove;
Nor herald take his fearful course,
To know and name the new-made corpse.

II.

Earl Warwick ruled that woeful hour.
What were compassion ‘gainst his power?
How many, fallen upon that heap.
Warm and alive, but succourless,
Had there unnoticed ‘found the sleep
His will might never more distress!
While he disputed, planned, arranged
Ambition’s little dream of fame,
Or with his peers, or knights, exchanged
Some narrow points of rival claim.
And thus it went till eventide;
And then the mitred fathers’ cry,
That those who had, on each side, died,
Should rest with equal honours here,
Was coldly granted; while a tear
Of saddest pity filled his eye,
Who pleaded for such ministry.
The monks, too, asked an armed band
Might round their Abbey portals stand,
And yet another guard their way,
When they their pious dues should pay,
And step amid th’ unhallowed troop,
Who o’er the dead and dying stoop.

III.

Then went the heralds on their round,
Proclaiming forth the dead;
And, following on that blood-stained ground,
York’s plundering lancemen sped.
And then, sustained by courage high,
Pale brothers of the monastery,
Solemn and still and sad went by;
Nor shrunk they, with an useless fear,
To do their awful office here.

IV.

Then straight were borne to Alban’s aisle,
Rescued by guard from wanton spoil,
Dead chief and prince and noble knight,
High plumed, and harnessed for the fight,
To rest, all in their steely gear,
In consecrated chapel there;
Knights, who that very morning rode
Beneath the Abbey’s tower,
And hardly owned the earth they trod,
Or any earthly power.
So light in hope, so high in pride,
Pranced they to battle, side by side:
Now under Death’s dim flag enrolled,
Their transient story now all told;
Still, comrades, side by side, they go,
And side by side, though shrined in brass,
Must soon into oblivion pass;
Scarce word shall live, nor sign, to show
What spirit’s dust sleeps there below.

V.

‘Twas well Duke Richard granted guard;
Much need had they of warlike ward —
Those hooded monks and lay;
Since armour rich of men they bear
The conquerors might strive to tear
From the dead corpse away.
And hardly did the guardian sword,
Or written sign of Richard’s word,
Deter from bloody fray.
And scarce the palls the Abbot sent
To shade the noble slain,
While through the open street they went,
Could hide bright casque, or chain.
Oft would a sullen murmur run
From lancemen rude the porch beside,
That the rich armour they had won
Should be preserved for chieftain’s pride
That they, who braved so much of toil,
Should share not in the hard-earned spoil.
They laughed in scorn, when it was said,
Such spoil would in the grave be laid,
Fit shrouding for a warrior dead.
Forty and nine of dead alone
Then bear they through the gate;
And many wounded men unknown,
Their pious care and pity own,
Too oft in dying state.

VI.

How mournful was the scene and dread
Of monks around those warriors dead.
Laid out in aisle and nave,
When, through the western window’s height,
The red sun, ere he sunk in night,
His last sad farewell gave!
His beams a darkened glory threw,
Tinged with that gorgeous window’s hue,
On every vault and arch on high;
Glanced on each secret gallery,
And half unveiled it’s mystery;
While shrine and bier and form of woe
Lay sunk in shadows deep below.
Grand as the closing battle-hour,
Yet gloomy as it’s fateful power,
Hovered that light above the slain,
Last light of their last day, and vain.

VII.

‘Twas at this hour of twilight pale,
When curfew-bell gave heavy wail,
A Pilgrim to the Abbey came
Brief rest and timely aid to claim.
While seated in Refectory
Thus did he to the warders state.
That, trusting to no bravery,
But to his honoured weed, his fate,
He passed alone the tented line
Of Richard’s camp, his outer guard,
And the town barrier’s watch and ward.
Now, when the Abbey-band asked sign,
And answer due to their watchword,
He ne’er before their pass had heard.
Then other means he tried to gain
The warders, and tried not in vain;
His gift bestowed, he pressed his way,
Where dim the convent portal lay.

VIII.

Lofty and dark that porch arose,
By fits the vaulting shown,
When the tossed torch a red flash throws
O’er thick-ribbed arch and crowning rose,
And hooded face of carved stone.
While passed the dead and dying through.
There watched the Pilgrim, hid from view,
Within a turret’s dusky stair,
Whence he might note what corpse they bear
He watched, with fixed and tearless eye,
The warrior’s death-march crowding by.

IX.

Under the gloom of portal door,
On bier and shield while soldiers bore
The hopeless wounded and the dead,
Pale monks with lifted torches led,
And Abbey-knights in silence ward;
Following came lancemen, as rear-guard.
The dying forms, then passing by,
Showed every shade of misery,
Mingling with warlike pageantry.
Some lay in quilted brigandine,
Others in polished armour shine,
And some in surcoat blazoned high.
Some were in ‘bossed and damasked steel,
With threatening crest and plumed head;
These the closed helmet-bars conceal.
On others the raised vizor shed
A shade athwart the eyes more dread
Even than the wounds it might expose.
And some there were, whose shroud-like mail,
Binding the chin and forehead pale,
Would all the dying look disclose!
O! that poor look, that sinking eye,
When glanced a light from torch on high,
Held by some mute o’erbending monk,
Of ghastly air and visage shrunk;
Whose wanness, though of different hue
From his, that lay beneath his view,
Yet, seen beside the living tint
Of men, who bore the corpse away,
Seemed but a fleeting shadowy hint
Of one, who had lived yesterday,
As with still step he passed along
The wounded and the dying throng.

X.

Once, as the grave’s dark guests pass by,
The Pilgrim’s sad and bursting sigh
Betrayed him in that shaded nook;
And, as the sound fell on the ear
Of monk, attendant on the bier,
He raised his torch around to look.
It showed him but the portal-roof,
The studded gates, long battle-proof,
The low-browed door and turret-stair,
And not the dark weed resting there.
And, had he spied that pilgrim-weed,
The form beneath he might not read,
Nor guess the world there hid, the fears,
The trembling thought, that sees and hears.
In every shape, in every sound,
Image, or hint of grief profound;
The pang, that seeks the worst to know,
Yet shrinks, and shuns the meeting woe,
Affection’s pang, o’er-watching care,
And, sickness of the heart! despair.
Yes; it was Florence there who stood,
Watching each passing corpse,
And waiting till a firmer mood
Might bear her on her course.

XI.

And, when the mingled crowd was passed
Of living and of dead,
And the great portal, closed so fast,
Echoed no sound of dread,
On noiseless foot pale Florence paced
The Abbey-court — and cloister traced
And hall and chamber’s gloom,
Forsaken gallery, dim stair,
Remote from steps of ceaseless care,
Fast thronging round the tomb.
No voice through stillness stole, no sound
Through all the widely vacant round.
Door after door, in long display,
Still led where distant chambers lay,
Shown by fixed lamp, or taper’s ray.

XII.

By such ray, trembling on the gloom,
She passed through many a vaulted room;
In one she paused, flung back her hood,
And, with an eager frenzy, viewed
What, silent, in the centre stood.
The board, that feasted living guest,
Behold! was now the dead man’s rest!
For banquet-cloth — a winding sheet!
That, lifted by the face and feet,
Veiled, yet made known, some form of death,
Laid out, unwatched, unwept, beneath!
Honour had watched his living course,
Terror and Pity wound his corpse,
But Sorrow bends not by his bier!
Though now, perchance, her steps are near.

XIII.

A shuddering instinct yet withheld
Florence from seeking, who was veiled;
And even the dread uncertainty
Whose countenance she here might see —
Even this seemed momentary shield
From truth, that might be there revealed.
With eyes fixed on that winding shroud,
Powerless she stood beside the dead;
Came o’er her sight a misty cloud;
Through all her frame a tremour spread;
A stillness of the heart — a trance
Held her, like statue in advance;
One hand just raised to lift the veil,
But checked, as life itself must fail,
If one loved face should there lie pale.
A moment passed — she raised the shroud,
Fell o’er her sight a darker cloud!
No cry she uttered; dropped no tear;
But sunk beside the Warrior’s bier.
There by a lay-monk was she founds
When passing on his wonted round;
There, like a broken lily, laid
Half-hid, within her pilgrim-shade;
And thence, with hopeless care, conveyed.

XIV.

Though closed the Abbey’s outer gate,
Still, through low porch and postern-door,
Pikemen the dead and dying bore
To the near aisles, where monks await,
And watch around th’ expiring chief,
With aiding pity, silent grief;
And every form of horror view,
Yet calm their duteous task pursue.
Clement, the Monk, was, on this night,
Shrine-watcher on the southern aisle,
Pacing o’er brass-bound graves the while,
By the pale, sickly, waning light
Of yellow tapers, ranged in state
O’er tombs of the departed great.
Under the transept’s shrined shade
No victim of the war was laid;
Yet, as with slow and heavy tread
Passed on the bearers of the dead,
Clement a prayer of requiem said.

XV.

From these new relics of War’s rage
Turning, it did his pain assuage
To look on marble sepulchre,
And ponder Latin register
Of those, who ruled here in past age.
He thought of FREDERICK THE BOLD,
Laid out in monumental brass,
Who, casting off his cope of gold,
Armed at all points stood in the pass,
When Norman William came of old;
And, sprung himself from royal race,
(Canute, the Dane, spoke in his vein)
Defied the Conqueror to his face.
Clement now almost saw his form —
That warlike Abbot, rising dim
From the grave’s sleep, as roused by storm
Of battle, then approaching him;
And could have thought his armour’s gleam
Did through the chancel-shadows stream;
Nay that his very shape stood there,
With face all haggard, wan and spare,
And plumage staring o’er his crest,
As if wild horror it expressed.

XVI.

Was this a vision that he viewed,
Wrought by o’er watching of the mind?
It seemed along the shade to wind,
And rest in thoughtful attitude.
All in the aisle was lone and still,
But from the distant nave a thrill,
A murmur deep and stifled broke;
Where monks, as they the dead laid out,
In voice of strange lamenting spoke,
As if half fearing, half devout.
Clement, the way that moaning came,
One moment turned his eye:
What was it shook his lofty frame?
What wrung from him that sigh?
He drew upon his face his hood,
Deep rapt awhile in thoughtful mood; —
When able to lift up his mien,
On the choir-step that vision stood,
That unknown shade, so dimly seen.
So woe-begone and stern it’s look,
The Monk with sudden terror shook.
He signed himself, and passed the way
Where other shrine-watch yet might stay.

XVII.

It waved him back with lofty sign,
Then trod the aisle alone,
In stately step, to Catherine’s shrine,
And spoke in stifled tone.
But Clement, still o’ercome with dread,
Before that warlike image fled.
It was no phantom that stood there,
But a true knight of Lancaster;
Who, ‘mid a crowd of monks, that bore
A warrior through St. Mary’s door.
Had here a dreadful refuge ta’en
Among the dying and the slain.
He craved of Clement secrecy,
That he might here in shelter be,
Having escaped, at midnight hour,
From those, who watched around this tower.

XVIII.

The Monk, well pleased with fear to part,
And aid Lancastrian Knight distressed,
Welcomed the stranger to his heart,
And freely granted all his quest.
He pointed to a little stair
Wound upward o’er the transept there;
He pointed, but they heard, remote,
Dull, measured footsteps fall,
And saw through Mary’s portal float
Slowly, a sable pall.
Distant, upon the aisle it turned,
Where Gloucester’s chantry-tapers burned.
The stranger stood, with brow intent
Upon that mournful vision bent:
So pale and still, though stern, his look,
Image he seemed, forsook of life.
But that his cresting plumage shook,
And told of passion’s strife.
All reckless of himself he stood,
While on the bearers drew,
Till Clement roused him from his mood,
And led him from their view.