Read Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Online
Authors: Ann Radcliffe
The Abbot bent; and bowed his head
To hide the tears that dimmed his eye
Faltered the words he would have said —
Of reverence, love, and grief — and fled
In deep convulsive sigh.
Oh! had he viewed in future time
The vision of that ghastly crime
(Pointing the pathway to the tomb)
Which marked the day of Henry’s doom,
His aged heart at once had failed,
And he had died, while he bewailed.
Henry one moment o’er him hung,
With look more eloquent than tongue —
Brief moment of emotion sweet!
Ere the King raised him from his feet:
But hark! in Abbey-court there rung
Flourish of trumpets, cheers of crowd,
Shrill steeds and drums all roaring loud.
XXXVIII.
The Abbot rose, but trembled, too;
Yet calm his look of ashy hue.
He sighed, but spoke not. Steps are heard;
A page and knight approach the King;
Message from Richard straight they bring,
That all things wait the royal word
For London; and the morning wore.
Faint smile of scorn the King’s face bore
At mockery of his princely will,
While captive he to Richard still.
But the meek Henry was not born
To feel, or give, the sting of scorn;
Soon did that smile in sadness fade.
Tinged soft with resignation’s shade —
The paleness of a weeping moon,
Which clouds and vapours rest upon.
XXXIX.
Again the trumpets bray; again
Ring iron steps, and shouts of men.
In armour cased, Duke Richard came;
Proudly his warlike form he held,
And looked the Spirit of the field,
Yet for King Henry’s royal name
Feigned reverence due. With gentle blame
For lingering thus, he urged him hence,
While mingled o’er his countenance
A milder feeling with his pride —
A pity he had fain denied —
As he that look of goodness viewed,
Beaming in dignity subdued.
XL.
Following his steps came knight and lord,
And filled the royal chamber broad;
Yet came not Warwick in the throng,
Smitten with consciousness of wrong.
There was in Henry’s meekened look
A silent but a deep rebuke,
That smote his heart, and almost drew
His vast ambition from its view.
But, when that look was seen no more,
The pang it caused too soon was o’er,
And rashly his career he held
‘Gainst him in council and in field;
And now was with the vanguard gone
To fix the triumph he had won.
XLI.
By the King’s side, mourning his fate,
The aged Abbot stept.
Through chamber, passage, hall, and gate,
Where steeds and squires and lancemen wait,
The Abbey’s pomp, the Warrior’s
Their full appointment kept.
When the last portal they had gained,
Close marshalled bands without were trained
Within, high state the Church maintained.
The Abbot paused, and from his brow
Dismissed the darker cloud of woe,
To bless his parting Lord;
With arms outstretched, and look serene,
Pity and reverence were seen
A farewell to afford.
And thus the hundred monks around
Bestowed their blessings on his head,
While none of all the crowd was found,
Rude foes, stern soldiers, marshalled,
That did not say, or seem to say,
“Blessings attend thee on thy way!”
XLII.
The farewell Benediction o’er,
Duke Richard willed such scene no more,
And instant signal made to part;
He scorned, yet feared, each trait of heart.
A smile, a tear, in Henry’s eye
Said more than words may e’er supply,
As from the portal slow he past
And turned a long look — and the last.
Loud blew the trumpets, as in scorn
Of those they left behind
Stretched pale upon these aisles forlorn;
Loud blew they in the wind.
The fierce yet melancholy call,
Which died around each sable pall,
Formed but the warrior’s wonted knell —
The solemn and the last farewell!
XLIII.
This fearful summons was the last
That shook the sainted Alban’s shrine;
While now the martial pageant past,
Arrayed in many a glittering line,
From his pale choir and frowning tower,
Sad witness of the battle hour.
And from that broad tower now was seen
Those bands of war, on May’s first green,
In gleaming pomp and long array
Winding by meads and woods away;
While Clement viewed them, who, with DREAD,
Had watched their fires on hill outspread;
Had seen their white tents, dawning slow
On yester-morning’s crimsoned brow;
And thought how soon his shrines might fall
Beneath this poorly-battled wall.
He heard their trumpets in the gale
Sink fainter; as they seemed to wail
That Quiet did o’er War prevail.
He heard the tramp of measured tread,
The clattering hoofs, that forward sped;
The numerous voice in sullen hum;
And, last and lone, the hollow drum,
Till far its deadened beat decayed,
And fell upon the listening ear
Soft as the drop through leafy shade,
Then trembled into very air.
How still the following pause and sweet,
While yet the air-pulse seemed to beat!
XLIV.
Thus passed the warlike vision by;
While Alban’s turrets, peering high
Upon the gold and purpled sky,
O’erlooked the way for many a mile,
And, touched with May-beams, seemed to smile,
— Smile on the flight of War’s sad care,
That left them to their sleep in air;
And left the monks of gentle deed,
To blessed thanks from those they speed —
Left the poor friend, who watched his lord
Wounded, unwitting of reward,
To see him to his home restored —
The saintly Abbot left to close
His gathered years in due repose —
The dead unto their honoured tombs;
To peace these aisle’s and transept’s glooms!
XLV.
When Florence to her home returned
The aged servant she had mourned
Received her at her gate;
And, pawing on the ground again,
Behold her steed, who prison-rein
Had snapped, and homeward fled amain,
And here did watchful wait;
And onward to his mistress went,
With playing pace and neck low bent.
Once more beneath her peaceful bower,
Oh! how may words her feelings tell,
While now she viewed St. Alban’s tower,
That, yesterday, even at this hour,
She watched beneath dark Terror’s power?
One other day had broke his spell!
XLVI.
Farewell! farewell! thou Norman Shade!
The waning Moon slants o’er thy head;
Thy humbler turrets, seen below,
Uplift the darkly-silvered brow,
And point where the broad transepts sweep,
Measuring thy grandeur; while they keep
In silent state thy watch of night,
Communing with each planet bright;
And sad and reverendly they stand
Beneath thy look of high command.
Oh! Shade of ages long gone past,
Though sunk their tumult like the blast,
Still steals its murmur on my ear;
And, once again, before mine eye,
The long-forgotten scenes sweep by;
Called from their trance, though hearsed in Time,
Bursting their shroud, thy forms appear,
With darkened step and front sublime,
Sadness, that weeps not — strength severe.
And still, in solemn ecstasy,
I hear afar thy Requiem die;
Voices harmonious through thy roofs aspire,
The high-souled organ breathes a seraph’s fire i
Peace be with all beneath thy presence laid:.
Peace and farewell! — farewell, thou Norman Shade
CONTENTS
ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE GROUP CALLED THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS
A SECOND VIEW OF THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.
ON ASCENDING A HILL CROWNED WITH A CONVENT, NEAR BONN.
AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK AT KNOLE.
ON READING THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES
SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY.
STONEHENGE.
I.
WHOSE were the hands, that upheaved these stones
Standing, like spectres, under the moon,
Steadfast and solemn and strange and alone,
As raised by a Wizard — a king of bones!
And whose was the mind, that willed them reign,
The wonder of ages, simply sublime?
The purpose is lost in the midnight of time;
And shadowy guessings alone remain.
II.
Yet a tale is told of these vast plains,
Which thus the mysterious truth explains:
‘Tis set forth in a secret legend old,
Whose leaves none living did e’er unfold.
Quaint is the measure, and hard to follow,
Yet sometimes it flies, like the circling swallow.
III.
Near onto the western strand,
Lies a tract of sullen land,
Spreading ‘neath the setting light,
Spreading, miles and miles around,
Which for ages still has frowned:
Be the sun all wintry white,
Or glowing in his summer ray,
Comes he with morning smile so bright,
Or sinks in evening peace away,
Yet still that land shows no delight!
IV.
There no forest leaves are seen,
Yellow corn, nor meadow green,
Glancing casement, grey-mossed roof,
Rain and hail and tempest proof;
Nor, peering o’er that dreary ground,
Is spied along the horizon’s bound
The distant vane of village spire,
Nor far-off smoke from lone inn fire,
Where weary traveller might rest
With blazing hearth and brown ale blest,
Potent the long night to beguile,
While loud without raves the bleak wind;
No: his dark way he there must shivering find;
No signs of rest upon the wide waste smile.
V.
But the land lies in grievous sweep
Of hills not lofty, vales not deep.
Or endless plains where the traveller fears
No human voice shall reach his ears;
Where faintest peal of unknown bells
Never along the lone gale swells;
Till, folding his flock, some shepherd appear,
And Salisbury steeple it’s crest uprear;
But that’s o’er miles yet many to tell,
O’er many a hollow, many a swell;
And that shepherd sees it, now here now there,
Like a Will o’-the wisp in the evening air,
As his way winds over each hill and dell,
Where once the ban of the Wizard fell!
VI.
Would you know why this country so desolate lies?
Why no sound but the tempest’s is heard, as it flies,
Or the croak of the raven, or bustard’s cries?
Why the corn does not spring nor a cottage rise?
Why no village-Church is here to raise
The blest hymn of humble heart-felt praise,
Nor ring for the passing soul a knell,
Nor give to the dead a hallowed cell,
Nor in wedlock-bonds unite a pair,
Nor sound one merry peal through the air?
All this and much more would you know? And why,
And how, Salisbury spire was built so high,
As fairies had meant it to prop the sky?
Then listen and watch, and you soon shall hear
What never till now hath met mortal ear!
VII.
It was for, for back in the dusky time,
Before Church-bells had learnt to chime,
That a Sorcerer ruled these gloomy lands
Far as old Ocean’s southern sands.
He lived under oaks of a thousand years,
Where now not the root of an oak appears!
On each high bough a dark fiend dwelt,
Ready to go, when his name was spelt,
Down, down to the caves where the Earthquake slept,
Or up to the clouds, where the whirlwind swept.
VIII.
The Sorcerer never knew joy, or peace.
For still with his power did pride increase.
He could ride on a wolf from the North to South,
With a bridle of serpents held fast by the mouth;
And he minded no more the glare of his eyes,
That flashed about as the lightning flies,
Than the red darting tongue of the snake, that coil’d
Round his bridling hand, and for liberty toil’d.
He could sail on the clouds from East to West,
He rested not, he I nor let others rest;
And evil he wrought, wherever he went,
For, he worked, with Hela’s and Loke’s consent.
The BRANCH of SPECTRES she gave for his wand,
And nine hundred imps were at his command!
He could call up a storm from the vast sea-wave,
And, when ships were wrecked, not a man would he save!
He could call a thunder-bolt down from a cloud,
And wrap a whole town in a fiery shroud!
IX.
He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,
Through valleys of darkness, by snakes’ eyes shown,
And pass o’er the bridge, that to Hela led,
Where afar off was heard the wolf Fenris’ groan,
While it guarded her halls of pain and grief,
Where she nursed her children — Famine and Fear;
He could follow a spectre, even here,
With the dauntless eye of a Wizard-chief.
He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,
Till it passed the halls of Hela the dread.
He could chase a ghost down the road of the dead,
Till it came where the northern lights flash red.
Then the ghost would vanish amid their glow,
But the Wizard’s bold steps could no farther go!
And whether those lights were weal, or woe,
The Sorcerer’s self might never know.
All this and more he full often had done,
And changed to an ice-ball the flaming Sun!
X.
Now Odin had watched from his halls of light
This dark Wizard’s fell and increasing might;
And clearly he knew, that his craft he drew
From the Witch of Death and the Evil Sprite,
Who, though chain’d in darkness, and far below,
Sent his shadows on earth, to work it woe.
This Wizard had even defied his power,
For once, in the dim and lonely hour,
When Odin had seen him riding the air,
And bid him with his bright glance forbear,
Great Odin’s look he would not obey,
But went, on his cloud, his evil way!
He had dared to usurp, when invoking a storm,
The likeness of Odin’s shadowy form,
And, when Odin sang his fomed song of Peace,
That hushes and bids the wild winds cease,
While it died the sleepy woods among,
And the moonlight vale had owned the song,
The Wizard called back the stormy gust,
O’er the spell-struck vale, and bade it burst!
The woods their murmuring branches tossed;
And the song — the song of Peace — was lost —
Then Odin heard the groan of thrilling Fear
Ascend from all the region, for and near,
And, as it slowly gained upon the skies,
He heard the solemn call of Pity rise!
XI.
Then Odin swore,
By the hour that is no more!
By the twilight hour to come!
By the darkness of the tomb!
By the flying warrior’s doom!
Then Odin swore,
By the storm-light’s lurid glare!
By the shape, that watches there!
By the battle’s deadly field!
By his terrible sword and snow-white shield,
The Sorcerer’s might to his might should yield.
XII.
While Odin spoke, the clouds were furled,
And those beneath, as stories say,
Lost the sight
Of our earthly light,
And caught a glimpse above the world?
But the phantasma did not stay:
It passed in the growing gloom away!
And from that hour these stories date
The fateful strife we now relate.
XIII.
Now, there was a Hermit, an ancient man,
Who oft lay deep in solemn trance,
Watching bright dreams of bliss advance;
And marvellous things of him there ran;
He had lived almost since the world began!
The people feared him, day and night,
And loved him, too, for they knew that he
Abhorred their wizard-enemy,
And wished and hoped to do them right.
He OWNED THE SPELL OF MINSTRELSY!
And in the hour of deepest shade,
When he would seek his forest-glade,
(It was of grey oaks in a gloomy hollow
Where never footsteps dared to follow,)
And called from his harp a certain sound,
Pale shadows would stand in his presence ‘round!
How this could be known, without a spell,
I must briefly own I never could tell.
— But, be that as it may — on that note’s swell,
Whether they sleeping were in halls of light,
Or followed the stars down the deeps of night,
Or watched the wounded Warrior’s mortal sigh,
Or after some ill-doing Sprite did fly,
On that note’s swell they to the Hermit hie;
And heed his questions, wait on his command;
These were the Spirits white of Odin’s band.
XIV.
Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,
And to him, at times, his favour lent;
He was the first of the Druids here;
And did all their laws and rites invent.
Some stories say a Druid never bent
At Odin’s shrine; and others may have told
The self-same tale, that here for truth I hold;
He was the first of all the Druid race:
Owning the spell serene of Minstrelsy!
But though he oft the Runic rhyme did trace,
No wizard he!
No fiend he called, no fiend he served,
And never had from justice swerved.
From mystic learning came his power,
His name was from his oaken-bower,
He was the first of
ALL
the Druid rage!
XV.
And Odin had marked this renowned old Seer,
And, when the solemn call for pity rose,
This goodly man to do his bidding chose,
A sage like whom was found not far or near:
Upon his head the snows of ages lay,
Hung o’er his glowing eyes and waving beard,
Touched every wrinkle with a paler grey,
And made him marvelled at, and shunned, and feared;
Yet, with this awe, love, as I said, appeared.
XVI.
He was gone to his home of oak;
Starlight ‘twas and midnight nigh;
Not one wistful word he spoke,
But his magic harp strung high;
As he touched the calling string,
Hear it through the branches ring,
Till on lower clouds it broke.
Straight in his bower dim shapes were seen
By the fitful light, that rose within,
And reddened the dark boughs above,
And chequered all the shadowy grove,
And tinged his robe and his beard of snow,
And waked in his eyes their early glow!
While, as alternate rose and sunk the gleam,
The tree itself a bower or cave would seem!
XVII.
The Druid, wrapt in silence, lay;
No need of words; his thoughts were known;
“Odin has heard his people’s groan,”
Spoke a loud voice and passed away.
Another rose, of milder tone!
“The mighty task is now thine own,
To free the land from wizard-guile;
If thou hast wisdom to obey,
And courage to fulfil the toil,
Odin, for ages, to thy sway
Gives each long plain and every sloping dell,
Now suffering by the sinful Sorcerer’s spell.”
XVIII.
A third voice spoke, and thus it said —
“Listen and watch! for thou must brave
The wily Wizard’s inmost cave;
And, while he sleeps, around his head
Bind a charm, that shall help thee draw
Each fang from his enormous jaw;
There lies the force of all his spells.
Hundred and forty teeth are there
In triple rows; his art they share.
Hundred and forty thou must draw,
From upper and from under jaw.
Quick must thou be; for, if the charm
Break, and his bond of sleep is o’er,
Ere yet thy task is done, no power
Can save thee from his vengeful arm.
Thence from his cave, at magic’s hour,
Speed thou; and close beneath his bower
Bury the fangs nine fathom deep,
Or ere thine eyelids close in sleep:
With them his guile for ever laid.
Thine is the land, which late he swayed.”
XIX.
The voice is passed, and once more stillness reigns
The Druid’s trance is o’er; yet he retains
A wildered and a haggard look.
As pondering still the urgent word,
And wonderous call he just had heard.
And sure instruction from that call he took!
xx.
And from this hour he was not seen,
Neither on hill, nor yet in dale;
By the brown heath, nor forest green,
Nor by the rills, where waters wail;
By sun-light, nor by moonbeam pale.
But his shape was seen, by starlight sheen;
Or so the carle dreamt, who thus told the tale!
XXI.
For many a night and many a day,
Close within his bower he lay,
For many a day and many a night,
Hid from sight, and hid from light,
Trying the force of his mystic might;
Working the charm should shield him from harm,
When he in the Wizard’s cave should be,
To set the wretched country free.
HE owned the spell of Minstrelsy.
XXII.
It boots not that I here should say
What arts the Druid did essay:
How with the misletoe he wrought,
That twined upon his oldest oak,
How midnight dew he careful caught
From nightshade, nor the words he spoke,
When he mixed the charm with a moonbeam cold,
To form a web, that should fast enfold
The Sorcerer’s eyes — vast Warwolf the bold.
Nor boots it, that I here should say
The dangers and changes, that him befell
On his murky course to War wolfs cell; —
For, circled safe with many a subtle charm,
Was his dark path along the forest-way;
The lamp he bore sent forth its little ray,
And sometimes showed around strange shapes of harm
Gliding beneath the trees, now close beside;
Now distant they would stand, obscurely seen
Among the old oaks’ deep-withdrawing green.
XXIII.
But the calm Druid touched th’ according string
Of the small harp he bore, with skill so true
That straight they left their shape and faithless hue!
Then voices strange would in the tempest sing,
Calling along the wind, now loud, now low,
And now, far off, would into silence go:
Seeming the very fiends of wail and woe!
Again th’ enchanting chord the Druid woke,
(‘Twas as the seraph Peace herself had spoke,)
And hushed to silence every wizard-foe.
XXIV.
The story could unfold much more,
That the daring wanderer bore,
O’er valley and rock and starless wood,
Ere at the Sorcerer’s cave he stood.
There come,’ he paused; for even he, I ween,
Confessed the secret horrors of the scene.
A place like this in all the spreading bound
Of these low plains can nowhere now be found
And scarcely will it be, I fear, believed
That beetling cliffs did ever rear the head
O’er lands as wavy now as ocean’s bed.
Bnt these huge rocks on rocks by might extinct were heaved.