Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (264 page)

XXXVIII.

But who the changing scenes may tell
This Abbey’s ancient walls have known!
When London tolled the Plague’s death-bell,
Justice here held her courts alone;
Here, in this nave, was placed her throne.
An earlier age showed scenes more dread,
For shrines and tombs around were spread
With bleeding knights and nobles dead.
Next age, the latter Henry’s bands
Each consecrated altar spoiled,
Seized on the Abbey’s ample lands,
And recklessly for plunder toiled.
Then, nearer to the living day,
Here other spoilers bore the sway,
Who, feigning Reason for their guide,
Indulged an impious, bigot pride.
All arrogant in their chicane,
They dared these reverend walls profane.
Then Cromwell’s bands on gravestones lay,
And storied brasses tore away;
The sculptured marble tombs defaced
Of those, who, nameless, sleep below;
That the tall arch, with web-work traced
That shadowed form of Prophet graced,
Was shattered by their impious blow.

XXXIX.

Of all this Abbey’s ample bound
One outer arch alone is found,
To mark the Convent’s stately port,
The entrance of the western court,
Beneath whose arch have passed the trains
Of Kings succeeding Kings, when strains
From trump and clarion, as from fort,
Have shook the massy walls around,
And startled with the warrior-sound
The penanced monk, in distant cell,
(He had his long beads twice to tell,
Nor knew what form he muttered then,) —
While forth, to meet their Sovereign,
The Abbot and his convent paced,
With time-worn banners, ranged in haste.

XL.

Then from the convent-lrall within
Faint might be heard the joyous din
Of minstrel-harp and choral voice,
That for the royal-guest rejoice;
And then the painted window bright,
Lighting, on high, the murky night,
And showing portraiture of Saint,
Kind signal to the Pilgrim faint;
But to the robber, in his cell
Of giant-oak, it told too well,
That richly-dight and jewelled guest
Would late return to distant rest.
The darkened vale and subject-town
Viewed such bright vision with a frown,
And murmured, that the tyrant knell
Of iron Curfew should compel
Their homes to sink in sudden night,
When e’en the turret, whence it spoke,
Insulting those who owned the yoke,
Lifted it’s brow, all ruddy bright,
Flushed from the Abbey-Hall’s strong light.

XLI.

But though these lighted halls are gone,
And darkly stands that tower and lone,
The sacred temple still endures;
A truer worship it secures.
And, though the gorgeous shrines are o’er,
And their pale watch-monks now no more;
Though torch nor voice from chantry-tomb,
Break, solemn, through the distant gloom;
Though pilgrim-trains no more ascend
Where far-seen arches dimly bend,
And fix in awe th’ admiring eye
Upon the Martyr’s crown on high,
And watch upon his funeral-bed;
Nor hundred Monks, by Abbot led,
Through aisle and choir, by tomb and shrine,
Display the long-devolving line,
To notes of solemn minstrelsy,
And hymns, that o’er the vaulting die
Yet, we here feel the inward peace,
That in long-reverenced places dwells;
Our earthly cares here learn to cease;
The Future all the Past expels.
And still, so solemn falls the shade,
Where once the weeping Palmer prayed,
We feel, as o’er the graves we tread,
His thrill of reverential dread.

XLII.

Thou silent Choir, whose only sound
Is whispering step o’er graves around,
Or echo faint from vault, on high,
Of the poor redbreast’s minstrelsy,
Who, perched on some carved mask of stone,
By lofty gallery dim and lone,
Sends sweet, short note, but sparely heard,
That sounds e’en like the farewell word
Of some dear friend, whose smile in vain
We seek through tears to view again!
Thou holy shade — unearthly gloom!
That hoverest o’er the Martyr’s tomb;
Ye awful vaults, whose aspect wears
The ghastliness of parted years!
The very look, the steadfast frown,
That ye on ages past sent down,
Strange, solemn, wonderful and dread,
Pageant of living and of dead; —
Thou silent Choir! thou holy shade!
Ye walls, that guard the Martyr’s head,
Meet agents are ye to inspire
The lone enthusiast’s thought of fire;
High ministers of Alban’s fame,
Ye are his tomb, and breathe his name.

XLIII.

And when, enthroned on field of war,
This Abbey’s walls are seen afar,
When it’s old dark-drawn aisles extend
Upon the light; and, bold and broad,
The central tower is seen t’ ascend,
And sternly look their sovereign lord,
We feel again such transports rise,
As fixed that way-worn Palmer’s eyes,
When, gaining first the toilsome brow,
Rose to his sight the Shrine below,
When, as he caught it’s aspect pale,
He shouted “ Alban! Martyr! hail!”
And knelt and wept, and kissed the long-sought

CANTO II
.

AMIDST these old abodes of peace
Did War his crimson banner rear.
And bid the heavenly anthem cease.
While his stern trumpets rent the air?
Here, in each cloister, hall and walk,
Where sandalled feet unheard went by,
And voices low, in reverend talk,
Feared to disturb it’s sanctity,
Did here the Warrior’s iron tread
Shake the cold slumber of the dead,
Call murmurs from the vaults below
And the long whispered sigh of woe;
Stalk o’er the helpless and the good,
And print the hermit’s vest with blood?
Yes; blood the hallowed pavement stained;
And blood the shrine of peace prophaned!
The ring of mail — the clash of steel
Through choir and cloister sent their peal
To chambers dim, where Silence slept,
And pious men their sabbath kept,
Who, long secure from sense of ill,
And well subdued in mind and will,
Pondered Futurity’s high theme
And this world’s strange and fleeting dream.

II.

O day of guilt and bleeding woe!
Year after year shall mourn in vain
The countless ills, that from ye flow;
And hardly hope for peace again —
The day, when York and Lancaster
First loosed the tide of civil war;
When hostile brothers of the land
Met face to face, and hand to hand,
And sunk each other’s lance beneath,
And breathed each other’s dying breath!

III.

The eve before that battle day,
The camp of either army lay
Beyond where now the straining sight
Can reach from Alban’s utmost height.
‘Twas leaning on this very tower,
That Alban’s Monks watched hour by hour.
They, who lie dark in death below
Yon fallen walls, in silent row
Gazed, as you gaze, from this high brow.
The cowl and helmet, side by side,
Watched from this height the bannered pride,
And marked the gathering storm of war
Hang dark o’er all those hills afar;
And, in dread stillness of the soul,
Heard the low, threatening thunder roll,
That soon would, in it’s cloudy course,
Burst round their walls with lightning-force.

IV.

Camped o’er those green and northern lands,
There lay Duke Richard’s way-worn bands;
The pale rose on their ensigns stood.
Southward, where now the clear sun shines.
Watched Royal Henry’s warrior-lines,
Surmounted with the rose of blood.
His vanguard lay beneath these halls,
And round St. Stephen’s neighbouring walls.
To Cashio’s vale his centre spread,
Where the King pressed a thorny bed.
His legions stretched toward Stanmore’s brow
And Harrow’s lofty sanctuary,
Whose spiry top you just may know,
Crowned with many a stately tree,
Where now the gleam falls fleetingly.
The lights and shades of Fortune’s power
Fell not as Nature’s at this hour.
Her storm frowned on the southern scene;
Her smile shone o’er yon flowery green.
Those distant downs, now dim and grey,
Those misty woods received her ray.

V.

While the Monks from this battlement
Their glance o’er the wide prospect sent,
They watched the western sun go down
‘Mid clouds of amber, edged with gold,
That did their splendid wings unfold,
And seemed to wait around his throne.
A monk, who marked them, dared foretell,
That gentle Peace would here still dwell;
But the bold guess and flattering ray
Sunk alike in gloom away.
One crimson streak of parted day
Lingered where HENRY’S army lay;
Till o’er it spread the night’s dark hue,
That veiled awhile each camp from view.

VI.

Then, gradual, through the deepening gloom,
Torch and signal-fires relume
The war-lines on the hills and dells,
Leaving wide shadowy intervals;
Yet marking to the distant eye
How broad and close those camp-lines lie:
Gleaming as does the Ocean’s bed,
When sun has set in stormy red,
And surge on surge rolls crested bright,
Beneath the glance of parting light.

VII.

The other camp, of smaller force.
Concealed it’s boundary by the course
Of heights, save where one hill retired;
There was the dusk with redness fired
By casual watch-torch through the gloom;
And there lay YORK, like hidden doom,
Waiting to send forth nameless woes.
High o’er that hill the blaze uprose
Upon the darkly-sullen sky,
Here reddening on a livid cloud,
There glancing like the fancied crowd,
That ride the northern lights on high.
Duke Richard watched upon this hill,
While his camp-field was dark and still;
But that a guard-fire, here and there,
Lifted it’s lonely fitful glare,
Where steeds and warriors lay around
In harness for the battle-day,
Half-slumbering to the frequent sound
Of steps and weapons on the ground,
Preparing for the morrow’s fray.
His scouts near Henry’s army strolled,
And to his gathered Council told
Where lay it’s weakness, where it’s hold.
But HENRY, trusting to his force,
Scorned such dark cares and secret course.

VIII.

So near the outer posts approached,
That each on each at times encroach’d,
And speech of taunt, or civil cheer,
Mixed with the clink of harness-gear,
Was heard; and each might view the flare
From Alban’s topmost round in air,
That made the tower, in lurid gloom,
A more gigantic port assume.
And, silent, on the rocky steep
Their watch o’er hill and valley keep.
Each, too, might see dim forms on high,
Glide, where the beacon touched the sky:
For there it’s flame of sullen red
Flashed on a cowled monk’s sable head,
Glanced on the Abbey-knight beside,
And showed his plumy crest of pride,
On the night-breezes dancing gay,
As though in sun and chivalry.

IX.

That monk and knight, with steady gaze,
Watched where the far-off signals blaze,
O’er many a ridge of wood and down,
From heath and camp, from tower and town
From ancient Hadley’s cresset-flame,
That peered o’er hills, an eastern star,
(The beacon-turret still the same)
Bearing this sign of iron war
To Cashio’s close-surrounded vale
And Gorhambury’s turrets pale,
And nameless lands, in shade unknown.
The nearer scene they looked upon,
Glimmer’d in varying shade and light,
Thrown from the Abbey’s beacon bright.

X.

It gleamed on stately bowers below,
Tinged porch and transept’s dusky brow,
Glared on broad courts and humble cell,
Glanced on the crystal Oriel,
And cast deep shadow on the ground
From gates and turrets ranged around.
There, Abbey Lancemen slowly paced,
Where scarce the portal-arch was traced,
As flashed the blaze along the air,
And quivered on each Warrior’s spear;
Long, shaded walks it showed, that led
Where cloister-plat and gardens spread,
And monks, wrapt close in sable weed,
Passed to and fro, with fearful speed.
The gloomy light was thrown so far,
It reddened dark St. Michael’s brow,
Frowning on Roman foss below,
And tinged the bridge and streams of Ver.

XI.

St. Alban’s town, with wakeful eyes,
Viewed the red beacon sink and rise,
And, sought to spell each signal sent
To good King HENRY’S distant tent.
And, while they gazed, the changing glare.
Broad on each roof and lattice-bar,
Showed every visage watching there
For tiding of the threatened war.
Upon Queen Ellen’s pile of state,
That crowned the town and mourned her fate,
The trembling gleam touched shrine and saint
With light and shade, so finely faint,
The form beneath each canopy
Appeared to lean so patiently,
As if it bent o’er the loved bier,
That, once for short time placed here.
Had made the spot to Edward dear,
And listened, while the Requiem’s flow
Shed stillness o’er the mourner’s woe.

XII.

Patient upon the Abbey-Tower,
From Vesper to the Matin hour,
The knight and monk the first watch kept,
While few beneath their vigil slept.
Later, within the turret-head,
The monk from the chill night-wind fled;
But never from that platform’s height
Strayed the due footstep of the knight.
With patient eye and measured pace,
He turned upon the narrow space.
And listened each imperfect sound,
That rose from camp, or road, around,
Or noise of preparation made
Below in porch and archway shade.
The massy bolts and ponderous bars
Of studded gates, that, in old wars,
Against the rebel townsmen closed,
Had now so long in peace reposed,
So long had been unmoved by hand,
They now the Warder’s might withstand.
Often was heard the mingled din
From clink of smith and voice within,
From footsteps heavy with the weight
Of chest, that bore from shrines a freight,
And altar-tombs, to secret hold
Of jewels rich and cups of gold;
Though yet was left some little show
To check, if need, the plunderer’s blow.

XIII.

And, when such busy sounds were o’er,
That Abbey-knight might hear once more
From the still street, in echoing swell,
The watchword of each sentinel
Pass on it’s far-extending range
From post to post, with ordered change.
Now low, now sullen, and now high,
“Health to the King!” — then “So say I.”
And sometimes, too, a distant drum,
With stealthy murmur seemed to come,
Then rolled away, and sunk afar
Where slept the thundercloud of war.
From roads was heard and doubted ground
The watch-cry of patrols around,
Mingled, at times, with one slow note,
Swelled solemn from the cornet’s throat,
And answered faint and fainter still,
Like echo from the distant hill.
And, when such solemn sounds were past,
When slumbered e’en the midnight blast,
The due hymn from the choir below
Through the high tower ascended slow,
While round the bands of Havock lay,
Waiting but for the morn of May
To light War, Death, and Treason to their prey

XIV.

The Knight sent frequent message down,
That all was still,
No sign of ill
Drew nearer to St. Alban’s town.
The while the Abbot, in debate,
Sat with his officers of State,
And Seneschal, Judge of his Court,
Discussing every new report
And message, sent from scouts afar,
That told the visage of the war.
Vainly for some they waited long,
Perplexed Duke Richard’s hosts among;
Others came, horse on horse, so fast,
That every quarter-watch that passed,
Brought rumour fresh and wond’rous tale,
Bidding now hope, now fear, prevail,
And still most wond’rous ever was the last.

XV.

The pious Abbot, Whetehampsted,
Of learned men the learned head,
Closed a late council, and withdrew,
Needful, though short repose to woo;
But still the Prior and Seneschal
Waited the worst, that might befall,
Ready, if enemy approach,
For council at the Abbot’s couch.
He, wakeful long and anxious still,
Lost not in sleep his sense of ill,
For then, in slumbers, touched with sorrow,
He saw dim visions of the morrow,
Saw round those walls the battle bleed;
Heard the fierce trump and neigh of steed;
Saw wounded Henry, in the strife,
Borne down and pleading for his life,
And, starting at the piteous view,
He woke, with chill brow bathed in dew.

XVI.

That night, few monks their pallets pressed,
And scarce an eye was closed in rest;
Most were from slumber held away
By terror of the coming day;
Yet some there were, who, fond of change
And slaves to envy, wished to see
The battle take it’s direst range,
Though round their walls it chanced to be
And some, who, fired with worldly zeal,
Would fain, with casque and sword of steel,
Mingle in royal Henry’s train;
And others Richard’s plea maintain.
But each, by prudent council swayed,
Or policy, their chief obeyed.
The ordered chime was hourly rung;
Each mass was duly said and sung;
And, at each gate, though armed band
Obeyed an Abbey-knight’s command,
And o’er the posterns had control,
Yet, at each station watched a cowl,
And still on tower, half hid in hood,
The pale Monk with the Warrior stood.

XVII.

That Monk had heard the Vesper-bell
Call every brother from his cell;
Had heard the bell of Compline sound,
And followed every service round;
And as he heard each chaunt ascend,
Silent and meek, his head would bend;
Each word th’ accustomed mind supplied,
That distance to his ear denied;
Though absent he, by painful need,
He joined the prayer and dropped the bead.
And oft, in silent orison,
He prayed, that war might spare this town;
That all who dwelt within these walls
Might duly own Religion’s calls
On the unknown tomorrow’s night,
Now trembling on his darkened sight.
He prayed, too, that no blood-stained grave.
Might wait that watching Warrior brave,
Whose spirit frank and free and kind
Had calmed and cheered his boding mind.

XVIII.

Still Jerome leaned on Alban’s tower,
And thoughtful watched the solemn hour;
All things lay wrapt in fearful gloom;
Time passed in silence toward the tomb.
Nor watch-dog’s bark, nor charger’s neigh,
Nor pass-word went the distant way;
Nor swept a breeze upon a bough
Of the high leafy walks below.
The holy hymn had sunk in peace;
Now Nature’s breathings almost cease.
In the deep pause alone might come
The sullen, faltering pant of drum;
So faint th’ uncertain sound in air,
It seemed like pulse within the ear.

XIX.

He viewed the dawn steal o’er the wold,
Paling each beacon-fire afar,
Till, wan and dim as twilight star,
The warning tale no more it told.
On the green woods that dewy light
Shed sleepy hues all chill and white.
That cold fresh light, that tender green,
Dawning through all the lonely scene,
A sweet and quiet sadness wore
To palmer, journeying at such hour
Through the wild path of forest-bower,
Well suiting with his humbled mind,
In holy grief to Heaven resigned.
If it recalled the long-past thought,
It soothed to smile the woe it brought:
Like touch of some fine harmony
To one endued with sympathy.