Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (270 page)

XIX.

Within a little secret door
Of this side aisle, they now explore
A stair, that goes within the wall
To galleries on high;
These run behind close arcades small
Along the transept nigh.
The arches round, the pillars short,
(With capitals uncarved and square,)
Changing each single arch to pair,
Seem by rude hand of Saxon wrought,
Or Norman William’s earliest train:
So massy is their shape and plain.
Hid in these galleries, unknown,
A stranger long might be,
Yet on the shrines and tombs look down,
And all there passing see.
Such channels run, in double tier,
Through every aisle and transept here;
Yet goes not one, unchecked, the round
And bendings of this mystic ground,
But, broke by window, arch, or pier,
The narrow way is often found.

XX.

Within that little secret door,
A few steps of the Choir before,
Clement the mournful stranger led,
While passed, upon his funeral bed,
Unwept, unknown, that warrior dead.
The pall had shifted from it’s hold,
And showed a casque of steel and gold,
A LION PASSANT CREST;
And, just beneath the vizor raised,
The eyes, for ever fixed and glazed,
A warrior’s death confessed.
Two men-at-arms stepped slowly near
A Poursuivant, before the bier;
And, as they passed, the Knight could hear
The watch-monk, Clement, feebly say,
“Who passes to his grave, I pray.”
The herald deigned not word to give,
Save “ Live King Henry! Henry live!— “
The Knight then, in his secret cell,
No longer might his feelings quell;
But stepped upon the aisle to learn,
What friend or comrade he must mourn.

XXI.

The bier had passed away the while,
The herald at it’s side,
And, as he turned upon the aisle,
Where nave and choir divide,
The stranger did PORTCULLIS know,
And princely Somerset laid low.
With bended head and downward eye,
He mused in grief to see
The Chief so oft of victory,
Whom last he viewed ‘mid banners high
And trumpets’ pride and shout of joy.
While thus the warrior dwelt in thought,
The Monk, respectful of his pain,
No word of consolation sought,
Impertinent and vain;
But watched him, with a low-breathed sigh,
And look of gentle sympathy:
Till the Knight, fearing further stay,
Turned round and signed the Monk away;
And Clement led him up the flight,
That opened on the gallery height.

XXII.

The beams, that rose from shrine and tomb,
Broke on that stair-flight’s distant gloom,
As now the Knight and Monk ascend;
And, seen beyond low arches there,
Tall fretted windows rose in air,
And with the transept-shadows blend
Dim form of warrior and of saint,
Traced gloomily by moonbeam faint.
These words the Monk at parting gave,
“Sir Knight, whatever you may see
Within this hidden gallery,
Sir Knight, be watchful, mute, and brave;
The way is little known,
And you are safe from human ill
If you shall secret be and still: —
“I leave you not alone!”
The Stranger yielded to his will,
But answer made he none.
Yet much he mused on the dark word,
That might some inward hint afford
Of those he feared, this night, to see
Changed by Death’s awful mystery.

XXIII.

Within the pillared arch, unseen,
He stood and looked beneath;
Transept and aisle lay deep between
This angle and the Nave’s long scene
Of suffering and death.
Obscure in that far distance, lay
This scene of mortal misery;
And, where tall arches rose,
Each arch, discovering the way
To what beyond might passing be,
Did some dread group disclose.
Pale phantoms only seemed to glide
Among the torches there,
And stoop upon the tomb’s low side,
In busy, silent care:
Unseen the deathly form below,
Unseen the pale, reflected woe
On miens, that each woe share;
The sable cowl appeared alone,
Or glimpse of helm, or corslet, shown
By the red torch’s glare.

XXI.

Distinct, no sound arose, nor word
Along the vaults and arches spread,
Save that low murmur, shrill and dread,
Which in the Choir the Warrior heard;
While still the heavy march, afar,
Brought on new victims of the war.
Down the long south aisle swept his eye,
Upon whose verge two hermits lie;
Athwart that aisle, in farthest gloom,
The frequent torch was seen to glide,
Borne by the heralds of the tomb;
And, hurrying to the cloister-side,
Lay-monks oft bore upon the bier,
Into the dormitory near,
Bodies where life might yet abide.
And, ever as the Knight beheld
Those mournful shadows go,
Terror and high impatience swelled,
The fate of friends to know.

XXV.

Then sadly he withdrew his eye
From scene of Death’s dark pageantry,
Shaped out in garb so strange,
And bent it on the view below,
The southern transept’s gorgeous-show,
In long and ordered range
Of chantry, chapel, and of shrine,
Where lights for ever were to shine,
And priests for ever — ever pray
For soul of those, whose mortal clay
Within the still, cold marble lay.
On high, the broad round arches rose,
That prop the central tower,
Where, north and south, the long roof goes,
That either transept grandly shows
In full perspective power.
Dimly those arches hung in night,
Interminable to the sight.
While rose the massy piers to view,
The distant torch their shadows threw
Broad, dark, and far around.
Like Warders o’er this gloomy ground,
Those Norman pillars stood and frowned.

XXVI.

On either side, in transept-wall,
Where rise four pointed arches small,
Now silent, dark and lone,
Four dedicated chapels lay,
Receding from the open way,
Whence rose due orison.
Tapers beamed on each altar there,
‘Mid image carved and picture fair.
In one the priest sang nightly prayer
For Tynemouth’s Prior, Delamere,
Once ruler of the Abbey here.
Not that within this chapel’s shade,
His coffined bones were ever laid;
But in the chancel, graved on brass,
His stately form, with mitred head,
Still guards his low and silent bed,
Where he such happy hours did pass.
Calm is the countenance and wise,
With lids, that shade the thoughtful eyes.
So exquisite the graven plate,
So fine the form, so old the state,
Oh! may it long be spared the fate
Of other sad memorials near,
Torn ruthlessly from reverend bier
Of abbot, knight, of prince and peer.

XXVII.

As now the Stranger caught some strain,
Memorial of the newly slain,
Or heard the tender notes that plead
For spirit freed from mortal weed,
Pity and grief his eyes oppressed,
And tears fell on his warrior breast;
Such requiem might his father need!
He turned him from the moving strain,
And paced the gallery dim again;
With quick unequal step he paced,
And oft that gallery retraced.
Once, as he reached the farther end,
Another pathway, low and small,
Winding within the eastward wall,
Seemed far away to bend.

CANTO VII
.

SCENE IN THE MONASTERY.

I.

THE Warrior stood, and marvelled where
The secret way he spied might go,
Whether to turret high in air,
Or to some penance-cell below;
When, as he looked, a beam of light
Dawned through the gallery’s long night.
He passed upon that silent way,
And came where many a darting ray
Through the broad Saxon mouldings stray
Of a deep, jealous door,
With massy iron studded o’er.
Unclosed it stood, yet nought between
Of cell, or winding stair was seen.

II.

He paused, and anxious bent his head,
For a faint wailing seemed to rise,
Like that of mourner o’er the dead:
He would not mourner’s tears surprise.
But soon the murmur died remote,
Nor any sounds on silence float.
It might have come from hearse of death,
In chancel-aisle, unseen, beneath.
He passed the jealous Saxon door.
And stepped upon a covered floor!
Within appeared a chamber small,
Crowned with a vaulting, rich and tall,
With slender central staff for stay,
Whence the traced branch of leaf and flower
Spread, like a shadowing summer-bower,
Where evening’s slant beams stray.

III.

A velvet-curtain, drawn aside,
Showed bay-recess, of fretwork pride,
Where, on the window’s stately brow,
Vision of angels strove to glow,
As waiting orison below;
For there an altar was arrayed,
And consecrated tapers shone,
That such poor feeble homage paid,
As mortals pay by forms alone.
Beneath that curtain’s sweeping fold
Were ancient reliques, set in gold;
And, open on the altar, see
A missal, gold and velvet bound,
And on the step, just pressed by knee,
A cushion ‘broidered round.
The down had not regained it’s sheen,
Where the low bended knee had been,
Yet there no living step was seen.

IV.

The moon kept her still watch on high,
‘Mid surges of a stormy sky;
And, on the fretted window’s pane,
Illumined the rich pencilled stain
Of groups, that wake and die,
As sweeps the varying shadow by.
‘Now, as those angel-forms appear
And vanish in the shaded air,
Most strangely seemed each transient face
Some guardian spirit of the place.

V.

A moment stood the Knight to gaze
Upon this chapel’s circling bound;
The blazoned walls showed helpful phrase,
And the high scenes of holy ground.
O’er an arched door, that caught his view,
St. Andrew’s shielded sign he knew,
Carved on the stone, and, close beside,
This Abbey’s mitre-crest of pride,
Another shield, with wheat-sheaf, near,
Spelt of the Abbot ruling here,
Wheathampstede of the lengthened days.
A moment stood the Knight, to gaze
Upon the bending form above,
As watchful in its fretted cove,
The sainted bishop — Bishop Blaize.

VI.

Another form, of air serene,
Above the Saxon door was seen:
Saint Dunstan, he, whose harp all lone
Sounded in such celestial tone,
As if from airy choir, at eve,
Whom mortal eyes may not perceive.
With careful pause the Stranger viewed
That Saint’s enraptured attitude.
A crystal lamp, suspended high,
Touched with keen light his upward eye;
As if a beam of heavenly day
Fell, while he watched a seraph’s way,
And listened, in mute ecstasy
The slow ascending strains decay.
So fine the passion of his eye,
It seemed to speak both tear and sigh;
And the fallen drop upon his cheek
Spoke more than words themselves may speak.

VII.

He passed the door with cautious tread;
It to a vaulted chamber led,
With storied tapestry dressed around;
A screen of carved oak was it’s bound.
In lofty oriel, light and rich,
O’ercanopied, like mural niche,
King Offa, as the moonbeams glide,
Glimmered, in pall of purple pride.
Above, the trefoil-traced pane
Displayed, in bright and varied stain,
Th’ allusive arms, or cognizance,
Of Abbots, long departed thence.
This bay looked on the platform green
Of Abbot’s cloister, that was seen
In streamy light and slanting shade,
By the tall transept’s turret made.
From it’s bowed roof a silver light
Hung, and a trembling radiance shed
O’er the worn brow and hoary head
(With snow of seventy winters white)
Of a lone form, that sat beneath
Pallid and still, as shape of death.
The Abbot; in his mitred chair,
Wearied with grief and watch, slept there.
And, from such deep and kind repose,
Such seeming peace of heart as now
Beams blessedness around his brow,
Oh! must he wake to former woes?

VIII.

To the armed Knight who near him stood,
He seemed a Saint in tranced mood,
Or who had breathed his soul away.
And left below the pallid clay
Impressed with sign of heavenly bliss,
Instead of mortal happiness.
On the high desk beside him lay
The blessed Sriptures, shown by light
Of waxen tapers, branching there —
The study, that had closed his day,
And calmed the terrors of the night
With heavenward hope and heart-felt prayer.
His crown of earthly honour stood
Behind him, and a purple hood
Half shrouded, in it’s stead, the snow
That slept, like moonlight, on his brow:
His vest and tunicle of gold,
His ample train of graceful fold,
And all the pomp, that had arrayed
His presence, when the King was by,
Now dropped as cumbrous pageantry;
He wore his robe of evening-shade.

IX.

The Stranger, careful, watched this vest;
Scarce breathed the sigh, that heaved his breast,
Nor even the gauntlet-hands ungrasped,
That, on his first approach, he clasped;
Nor did his lifted step advance,
Lest ANY sound might break the trance,
That spread it’s blessing veil of peace
Upon the sorrows of that face.
So rapt the Warrior stood and still,
His very plume obeyed his will,
Nor waved, nor trembled on the air,
But watched, like mourning honours, there,

X.

Changed were sleep’s soothing visions now;
A frown shot o’er the father’s brow.
He breathed a deep, yet feeble moan,
As if his dreams had sorrow known;
And shuddering with the muttered tone,
The fancied grief, his senses own,
He starts. A knight in armour there!
In silence by his sleeping chair!
How has he passed, unheard, unseen,
By those, who wait without the screen —
The page and chaplain waiting there?
An armed knight before his chair I

XI.

He gazed, with startled, anxious eye,
Yet marked; as soared the plume on high,
The mimic red-rose, blooming by,
And, where the vizor overspread
Eyes, whose keen fire, through Pity’s tear,
A softened, trembling lustre shed,
(As stars through fleecy clouds appear.)
By that red-rose and gentle tear
He knew a knight of Lancaster;
And by that glance, those features bold,
That gallant air, that warlike mould,
He knew his race and lineage old;
And, while his knee the Knight had bent,
And reverently, with humble head,
Craved shelter in his Abbey’s nave,
Meek from his chair the Father leant,
And, with spread hands, his blessing gave
And words of kindly import said.
“Baron Fitzharding! welcome here.— “
The Abbot paused in generous fear.
“Welcome! alas! that may not be,
In lodgment with your enemy.
Ill-come! I fear, in this sad hour,
Where you may rue Duke Richard’s power
For here, this night, his court he keeps,
While royal Henry captive sleeps.”

XII.

Now, when he heard his King was there,
Fitzharding all things well could dare,
To see and greet his royal lord.
But soon the Father’s solemn word
Assured him the attempt were vain.
Duke Richard’s guard and courtier-train
So closely hemmed the conquered King,
That such adventure might even bring
Death on himself, and dread to all
Sheltered within the Abbey wall.
Nay, if the Baron here were seen,
Request and bribe might fail to screen
From Richard’s sudden rage the life,
Sought by him foremost in the strife.

XIII.

Fitzharding felt a flush o’erspread
His cheek — and sternly raised his head,
At mention of request to shield
His life from him he sought in field;
But checked his speech, and quelled his pride,
While he stood by the Abbot’s side.
The Father spoke with pitying sigh,
“In secret cell you safe may lie
Till the dark storm has passed by;
And such a shrouding cell is nigh,
But must be sought without delay,
For even here ‘twere death to stay.”
And, while he spoke, he looked behind
And listened, in his chair reclined —
‘Twas but the hollow moaning wind.
And then he asked by what dark way
The Knight this chamber did essay?

XIV.

Again a sound; and now was heard
A heavy step draw nigh;
He left unsaid the attempted word,
And backward turned his eye,
Where, distant, stretched the oaken screen,
And paler grew his pallid cheek,
While his dim eyes the footsteps seek
Of one without — unseen.
He signed Fitzharding to depart
And wait within, till signal made:
But the firm Warrior’s swelling heart,
His lingering footstep stayed.

XV.

From the carved screen and ante-room
A Monk, with countenance of gloom,
Came forth with feeble pace and slow,
With frequent pause and stated bow;
The shaven circlet on his head
No scapulary dark o’erspread,
Nor dimmed the pale lines on his brow.
Or the faint downcast eye below;
Yet, as he came with sullen tread,
No word of fear or hope he said,
Till he had reached the Father’s chair,
And bent him low in reverence there.
Then faint he spoke
— “
Duke Richard sends
He my Lord Abbots will attends.”

XVI.

Scarce had he said, when martial stride,
Quick, firm, and true, was heard without
A page the folded door threw wide,
And then arose a distant shout
Of men exulting in their choice
From court beyond; and nearer voice
Affecting to restrain the cheer,
As ill-timed and unseemly here;
Then steps again, and ring of steel
From chainlet and from armed heel.
That voice burst on Fitzharding near,
Like trumpet on the charger’s ear.
And even the Abbot’s warning glance
Might scarce restrain the Knight’s advance;
Till the pale Father waved his hand
With look of absolute command.
And pointed whither he should go;
So panted he to meet the foe.
Who held his royal master low.
No time for speech, or word, of grace;
So near and rapid was the pace,
He scarce might close the Chapel door,
Ere the Duke trod the Abbot’s floor.
Such present haste became him well,
Whose lengthened councils and debate
So long had made the Father wait,
And kept him from his nightly cell
Beyond the hour himself had named,
For urging rights himself had claimed.

XVII.

Now, where small Gothic window drew
It’s open tracery in the wall;
Fitzharding, all unseen, might view
Duke Richard in the Abbot’s hall;
And, with stern interest, survey
How he had borne the battle-day: —
He, whom, last seen in narrow space,
Fitzharding challenged face to face;
And surely had him prisoner made,
But for his henchmen’s sudden aid.
Now by the Abbot’s quiet chair
He sat, with proud yet troubled air;
His plume and casque were laid aside,
For lighter cap, of crimson pride,
Oraced with the budding rose of snow:
Dark was his eye, and flushed his brow:
Ill pleased he seemed, though conqueror,
As if but loftier sufferer;
And weariness his face o’erspread.
Rough was each word, and hoarse, he said;
For loud command, debate and fray
Had worn his voice, through that long day.

XVIII.

He came to claim the Abbot’s word,
That he would not in secrecy
Shield a Lancastrian enemy;
And some were even there, he heard, —
Some, he well knew, were in these walls,
Ready anew to stir up brawls:
Each such he claimed for prisoner;
They had provoked the cruel war.
The Abbot, mild, yet Arm, replied, —
The Church must shelter those, who sought
For sanctuary at her side;
Not mock the laws she always taught.
He would not, dared not break her laws,
However high the temporal cause.
If such men were these walls within,
Here must they rest, unsought, unseen.
He craved the Duke would not profane
The rights his duty must maintain.

XIX.

Richard gave prompt and brief reply,
That lightly he would ne’er defy
The Church’s right of sanctuary;
But these were times when such Church law
Would loose the chain, that held in awe
The guilty and the dangerous man.
He would not answer for the end,
How strict soe’er his orders ran,
If his men found an enemy
Were screened in aisle or monastery;
Then must the Church herself defend!
‘Twere better silently to yield,
For once, the sanctuary’s shield,
And point where foes might lie concealed;
Lest blood the Abbey-pavement stain,
And all the Church’s guard were vain.

XX.

He paused — the Father silent sate,
Reluctant to provoke debate,
Though scornful of Duke Richard’s threat;
And, when his look the threatened met,
His trembling limbs confessed his ire,
And, his eyes flashed with transient fire,
That glowed an instant on his cheek,
And thus his thronging thoughts might speak;
“If blood on sacred ground be shed,
The punishment is sure and dread.”

XXI.

The prudent Abbot ceased awhile,
And calmed his eye and smoothed his brow;
For he had seen Duke Richard’s smile —
Dark smile of scorn! portending woe.
“I will not vouch my soldiers’ grace,
No, not in Alban’s chariest place!
His very shrine may be profaned;
His very shroud with gore be stained:
Yield then my enemies in peace,
And then all fear and care may cease.”