Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (267 page)

XLI.

King Henry’s bravest warriors move,
Great Warwick’s hardiness to prove,
While, closely urged by foeman’s spear,
The wounded coursers plunge and rear,
With outspread nostrils raised in air,
And fiery eyes, that shoot despair;
They trample back the crowd behind,
Who, upward on the steep hill forced,
Press other troops in street confined;
Then chargers fall, and men unhorsed
O’er their own dead and dying go,
Nor horror, nor even pity know,
Conscious of nought but hate and strife,
Reckless of quickly-ebbing life,
Fighting on foot ‘gainst horse and lance,
Meeting in vain their foe’s advance;
Till, on the heaped and nameless dead,
They reach their final gory bed.

XLII.

Now other trumpets, blown with might,
North, East, and West, spoke triple fight;
But loudest strains swelled from the way
Where their liege-lord, King Henry, lay.
There York himself the barrier burst,
And on St. Peter’s Green was first.
And now, on summit of the town,
Where stood Queen Ellen’s shrine alone,
King Henry’s troops make their firm stand;
As if each man thought his sole hand
Fought on that spot for the whole land.
And from that summit of the town,
On the four main-ways looking down,
At every bar, save one, they see
The archers of the enemy;
And crowding helms, and ill-spurred horse,
Trampling o’er the new-fallen corse,
And forcing back each barrier-guard,
Mount where that Shrine had long kept solemn ward.

XLIII.

That Shrine, where Silence wont to dwell,
And listen to the breathing spell
Even the war-horse, when near the dead,
Trembles before the life-stream red;
Bristles his horror-lifted mane;
His tossing nostrils speak his pain.
Still, with distorted side-long leer,
He views the object of his fear;
At last his shuddering feet uprear,
At last the spur assails in vain.
The warrior on his back feels less,
Though better might that warrior know
The signs of suffering and woe,
And his own doubtful fortune guess.
But poor ambition, thoughtless pride,
Bear him, scarce moved, through battle’s tide.

XLV.

Then Clement left his raven-nest,
And to a Saxon turret pressed
That o’er the northern transept rose,
Where all around Queen Ellen’s bier
He wide might view, and all might hear,
Even till the battle’s close.
As he approached that turret-stair,
Lone were the Shrines and Chantries near;
No shadowed form on Offa’s aisle
Stole o’er the drear length of the pile,
But all so hushed the scene beneath,
It seemed the hall and throne of Death.

XLVI.

Clement had gained the turret-floor,
And pressed the massy oaken door:
Surprised he found himself among
The Abbot and a younger throng
Of monks, whose sight could pierce afar,
And tell the varying tide of war.
From their full window he withdrew,
And to the sister-turret hied,
That looked on the same northern view,
Commanding o’er it far and wide:
Here — though a crowd of hooded heads
Darkened the double Saxon arch,
Fled from high tower and open leads, —
Here might he watch the battle’s march.

XLVII.

From blessed Peter’s tower on high
To Ellen’s shrine of sanctity,
No thwarting roof-tops then concealed
The broad way of that fateful field.
The long green vista stretched below,
Straight as an arrow from a bow.
There, close around that ancient tower,
Incessant fell the arrowy shower;
O’er graves and charnel vaults it flew,
It cleared the streets in Clement’s view.
Duke Richard’s self, commanding there,
Had forced the northern barrier;
Waged war o’er the long-buried dead
And blood upon their homes had shed.
And many a youthful warrior brave.
In his first armour dressed,
Fought even upon his very grave,
His morrow’s final rest.

XLVIII.

From that dark tower the long broad way
Was thronged with Henry’s bands.
Close pressing where their monarch lay,
And where his banner, floating gay,
Richard’s full force withstands.
Clement could not De Clifford see,
Nor Somerset’s high blazonry;
But Buckingham’s pale plume he knew,
And his white armour’s silvery hue;
And, while he gazed, he saw him bow,
Then rise and totter in his seat,
And rein his charger to retreat.
A shaft has pierced his iron brow;
He sinks to earth; the dark streams flow.

XLIX.

Stafford, his noble son, fought near,
But saw not when his father fell;
And soon the battle’s onward swell
Checked, though not turned, his own career.
For, vain the terrors of his spear,
A fatal dart his gauntlet caught;
‘Twas pain, not danger, as he thought,
And, heedless of that pain, he fought
Till, fainting with the bleeding wound,
He falls on henchmen pressing round,
Who bear him senseless from the ground.
But, yonder, on St. Peter’s way,
With long sweep and resistless sway,
The surge of battle rolls along,
And threatens even the household throng,
Who watch their King, this fateful day.
And now, behold his banner there
Bow low and totter in the air;
And now, from forth his guarded hall,
St. Alban’s lofty Seneschal,
And Henry’s self, appear.
Yet feebly did the King advance,
As bending to some dire mischance,
His vizor close, his sword in hand,
And guarded by a noble band
And crowds of demi-lance.

LI.

He mounted on his battle-horse,
But turned him from the battle’s course,
Or would have turned; the warrior steed
Showed daring high for other deed.
Long did his stubborn neck disdain
To bend him from the trumpet’s strain,
With prancing foot and curvet high,
With spurning heel and arching mane,
He baffled still the guiding rein.
He would have borne his lord away,
And plunged him in the thickest fray,
But that a friend, though loth to yield,
With strong arm bore him from the field.

LII.

Yet hardly through the gory street,
So thick the dead and dying lay.
Could the guard find a safe retreat
For Henry, or pass on their way.
Then Lancaster’s sad heart sunk low,
Ill could he brook such sight of woe;
Shuddering he turned aside his head,
While his steed stepped among the dead;
But still to his averted eyes
Other grim shapes of horror rise,
And “Peace, O! blessed Peace,” he cried
While knights, who warded at his side,
Could scarce restrain their rising pride,
And, when their lord secure might lie,
Swore round his Rose to live, or die.

LIII.

And had our sovereign lady, Dame
Margaret, the Queen, been here,
Her cheek had crimsoned o’er with shame
To view her husband’s fear;
Though sorrow and disease oppressed
The princely spirit in his breast.
Not thus she fled, when second war
Dyed Alban’s field with blood,
But, high on Victory’s iron car,
Rushed through the purple flood.
But pity tempered not her ire;
No tear-drop dewed her eye of fire;
No hallowed fear her conscience held,
Nor piety her proud heart quelled;
These virtues, that ambition thwart,
Drew not upon her course the rein;
Brought not the pause — the second thought,
That passion’s impulse may restrain:
Rapid and fierce she pressed her way,
Though Truth and Mercy bleeding lay.
So, Gloucester, thy red grave might tell,
When mourned for thee St. Alban’s knell.

LIV.

Danger, when braved, like coward flies,
And safety, sought, oft wayward hies;
And this King Henry’s heart was taught,
Even while he humble shelter sought.
For, ere he reached a cottage-wall,
An arrow-wound had made him fall,
But that his band close round him throng,
And bear him on his steed along;
And, wounded, bleeding, fainting, slow,
A thatched roof shrouds a Monarch’s woe.

LV.

Return we now to Ellen’s shrine,
Where, thronging through the four street-ways,
Ensigns and plumes still wave and shine,
And falchions flash and helmets blaze,
And flights of arrows dim the air,
Rattling like hail,
On shield and mail,
In chorus with the war-shouts there.
And still, where blessed Peter’s tower
O’erlooked Plantagenet’s chief power,
Still, in Sir Philip Wentworth’s care,
Proudly the Royal Banner stood.
But now, while onward swept the flood,
That standard trembled in the air,
And foremost fled the traitor-knight,
Sworn to maintain that banner’s right.
He fled, without a single wound,
He fled, and cast it on the ground!
Then, scarce opposed, York’s special guard
Made dreadful havock down the street;
And, though below their way was barred,
‘Twas there their whole force thronged to meet.

LVI.

Long did the noblest of the land
Round Ellen’s mournful bier withstand
The triple-guided force
Of Warwick, York, and Salisbury;
Oh! it was dreadful truth to see
The battle press it’s course
Up every way to that high place,
Where, crushed into a narrow space,
The band of heroes fought
For him, who meekly wore the crown
From sire and grandsire given down,
By his own will unsought.
It was a gallant, mournful sight
To see those warriors few
Die for the cause which they thought right,
— Allegiance they thought due.

LVII.

And now the rumour faintly spread,
That Henry wounded was, and fled;
‘ Nay, lay in humble cottage dead.
Then first his faithful knights knew dread.
But, transient was such sense of woe,
And, “Vengeance! Victory!” they cried;
“His son shall triumph, though he died.”
Richard of York, the while, had sought
Where the King wounded lay,
And soon to his low roof was brought,
And claimed the prize of that fierce day.
Henry, though captive, then might see
His conqueror on bending knee,
With feigned suit and bold pretence,
Protesting truth and reverence.
In wily words, with poor deceit,
York said he never meant him ill;
That he had only armed to meet
Those foes, whose dark, ambitious will
Had ruled his councils and the realm,
And shortly would his throne o’erwhelm.
But now, those enemies o’erthrown,
If Henry would their acts disown,
And rule the English land alone,
His true liege-subject he would prove,
And henceforth only seek his love.

LVIII.

And thus swore all York’s subtle band;
But, adding still a new demand,
They claimed to guard the King from foes.
Lest evil council should dispose
His virtuous will to vengeful deed.,
And, by retaliation, lead
To future discontents and woe.
Now, this urged Richard’s subtle train;
And further “safety to maintain,”
They asked he on the morn would go
To London, in their duteous care,
And choose with them a council fair.

LIX.

And thus, with humble look and word,
The Duke his loftier hope deferred.
Though Victory was on his side,
He secretly might own,
Time had not brought on the spring-tide
Might bear him to the throne.
To win this venturous battle-day,
Such arts had now been tried
As could not claim continued sway,
Nor long his fortune guide.
But, for the moment gratified,
He left to future hour his claim,
That surer he might work his aim;
And therefore did he lowly bow,
Though victor, to his captive now.

LX.

Soon did fair speech King Henry gain,
While his heart, filled with grief
For others’ jeopardy and pain,
In words now sought relief.
“Spare, spare my people’s blood,” he said,
This moment bid the slaughter rest,
My will shall then by your’s be led;
My pardon take for all the past.
Lead me within the Abbey walls;
This scene of blood my heart appals!”

LXI.

Straight, Warwick bade the carnage cease,
And bleeding strife was hushed in peace.
That fateful moment who may paint!
Meet instant for the joy of saint!
The sword upraised withheld the blow,
That might have laid a brother low.
Then, sire and son, in armour clasped,
While almost each the other grasped,
And strove against the other’s life,
Heard the low strain, that stills the strife.

CANTO IV
.

I.

Now to St. Alban’s shrine was led
The captive King with royal guard;
While Richard at his side kept ward,
And Men-at-arms, with stately tread,
Encompassing about him went,
Beneath the Abbey’s battlement.
But, who King Henry’s woes may tell,
As he passed on the blood-stained way,
Where half his gallant nobles fell,
And yet untouched, uncovered lay,
Scarce cold, upon the gory heap,
Fixed in their last, unbreathing sleep! —
The friends, who on this very morn,
Since when but few brief hours had sped,
Had high sway in his council borne;
Who bent with him the thoughtful head!
Whose living eye by his was read! —
Now, ever closed their earthly dream;
All vanished, like a phantom’s gleam;
The veil withdrawn — the vision fled!

II.

The Abbot at the Abbey-gate
The victor and the vanquished met;
And thence, with bands in formal march,
And monks arranged in order long,
Led to the farthest eastern arch,
With mourning chant from the full throng
Where Henry, on St. Alban’s tomb,
Sought to disperse his mental gloom.

III.

Such Vision still is seen to mourn,
When evening-twilight falls,
By him, who on that day’s return
Stands silent by these walls —
The vanquished Sire, the victor Chief,
The mitred Abbot pale in years,
Whose cheek seems furrowed o’er by grief,
And sanctified by Pity’s tears,
The pious fathers, side by side,
And the whole Convent’s choral pride;
Three times beneath the Chancel’s gloom,
They move around St. Alban’s tomb,
Through open arches that appear,
As once they wont above the bier,
But, when the dream has passed away,
Close, and are seen as at this day.

IV.

It is a strange and fearful sight —
The Vision of that dreary night!
— To watch those shadows crowding by,
Each moving in his ordered place,
Like living form, with deathly face,
Distinct, and busy to the eye,
With gesture true of solemn rite,
Yet not a whisper heard, the while,
Of step, or voice, upon the aisle;
— It is a strange and fearful sight!

V.

But other scene, on that midnight,
Has shook the sexton with affright,
While passing o’er the glimmering nave,
By the dim flame his lanthorn gave.
Sudden, on each low tomb around,
A bleeding bier has seemed to rest,
Where stern in death a warrior frowned,
With funeral watch-light o’er his crest.
Where’er the old man turned his view,
Has seemed such face of livid hue.
But feeble age has fancies strange!
Youth may, on that same midnight, range
Through choir and aisle, and nothing see,
Save Norman arch and gallery,
And the brass-bounden grave of him,
Who sang the warrior’s dying hymn.
But, leave we now such idle dream,
To mind the past, yet real theme.

VI.

Low at St. Alban’s tomb they knelt,
The Conqueror and his King,
The Monarch hushed the pang he felt;
Nor did the victor sing
Memorial for the battle won,
But, decent, mourned the slaughter done.
Then solemn, from the Choir below,
The hymn of Vespers rose,
And, while meek Henry’s tears fast flow,
Breathed balm upon his woes;
But, transient was the sad repose: —
It ended with the Vespers’ close!

VII.

Just where the King did lowly bend,
Lay Gloucester in his grave!
His truest counsellor and friend,
Whom yet he failed to save
From Margaret’s hate and Beaufort’s guile, —
All unsuspicious he, the while,
Of the fell hatred that they bare
His kinsman — and their murderous snare,
And of his own progressive fate.
Had good Duke Humphrey ruled the state,
His truth had been his Sovereign’s shield
Gainst treason, open, or concealed.
Good Gloucester slept within this space,
And Henry, sufferer in his place,
Stood o’er his grave, in sanctuary
From his own rebel soldiery!
Oh! who may dare unfold
The darkening thoughts that o’er his spirit rolled,
And from his memory threatened soon to sweep
All paler records of long years, that weep,
While, thus a captive, with his foe he bent
Silent o’er bleeding Gloucester’s monument.

VIII.

When service in the Choir was o’er,
The Monarch and his train
Passed onward to the cloister-door,
Led by the Abbot, as before,
With the full chaunted strain,
To rest in royal chambers nigh,
The honoured Abbot’s guarded guest,
Beneath the velvet canopy,
Whose couch he oft in peace had pressed.
How different is his present state
From that he once had known, -
When Westminster proclaimed his fate
Was France and England’s throne;
When, passing from the tapers’ glare,
Just cumbered with his crown of care,
With infant smile he laughed to see
Such crowds and blaze of pageantry!

IX.

Ah! had he dimly then perceived
The secret of the gift received,
Stained with the blood of former times,
And thickly set with deadly crimes,
Gleaming with woes and passions dire
From ‘mid Ambition’s smouldering fire,
How had he shrunk, and wished to lie
“In shades of quiet privacy!”
And, ere he wore it for his own,
Renounced at once his father’s crown.
Now, all it’s terrors blazed, confest,
And peace for ever left his breast.
Yet might he not his path retread,
And give from his anointed head
The diadem his fathers gave,
Which fixed him for a party’s slave.

X.

Hard was the heart, and stern the mind,
And to it’s own contentment blind,
That could unloose a kingdom’s woes,
Within that painful crown confined,
While firm it circled Henry’s brows;
That could a selfish, slumbering right
Rouse from it’s lair in Time’s dim night;
Cry “Havock!”’and pursue the prey
But for Ambition’s holiday!
Hard was the heart, and dark the mind!
Such his, who Henry’s path beside
Marched where the convent-train inclined,
Beneath the Transept’s vaulted pride.

XI.

And thus was ranged the stately march,
When the King passed the Transept-arch: —
On his right-hand the Abbot walked,
Mitred and in his cope of gold,
The pious monarch’s gift of old;
And on his left Duke Richard stalked.
Straight from the place of war came he,
Nor moment spared his casque to free;
Aloft the white plume proudly rose,
But soiled with crimson were it’s snows,
And Henry paid a bitter tear
For every gore-drop speaking there.
Beneath, the lion-passant crest
His royal lineage professed;
And vizor up might darkly show
The meaning of his anxious brow;
While Richard’s form and stately grace,
His stature high, and martial pace,
Decisive look, and eye of fire,
Steady, though keen, and quick and dire,
Gave contrast to King Henry’s air.
Who, wan from wound, from grief and care,
Moved with unequal step and slow,
With wearied countenance of woe,
And weeping, with uplifted eye
Of meekness and of piety.

XII.

The reverend father, by his side,
Though pale and bowed with care and age,
Still showed an aspect dignified,
A look of mildly-tempered pride,
Such as doth love and awe engage.
As some tall arch, in fretted state,
Left lonely ‘mid the wrecks of fate,
Though perished be each gorgeous stain
That coloured high the storied pane;
Though broken be the moulded line,
That flowed with grandeur of design;
Though shades of many a hoary year
With lights of silver grey are there;
Th’ awakened mind YET MORE supplies
Than Time has stolen from our eyes;
And o’er the ruin’s desert space,
That arch throws high and shadowy grace,
Wraps us in pleasures almost holy
Of reverence, love and melancholy.

XIII.

Through the great cloister passed the train,
Where the carved trefoil windows glowed
With many a rich illumined pane,
By living Whetehampstede bestowed.
Large was the verdant plain within,
High the arched walks encompassing.
Now darkened was that long-stretched way
With Alban’s hundred monks; though gay
In scarlet copes went Chancellor,
The noble Steward, Seneschal,
And officers in the rich pall
They wore on solemn festival;
In snowy state, each Chorister,
Chaunting before the mournful King,
Till he had reached that guarded door,
Where, tall and light, the arches soar
That lift the Chapter’s vaulted ring.

XIV.

Then part the King and priestly band,
Who, in long line, on either hand
Bend lowly, as he moves along,
Smiling upon the cowled throng,
To the last murmur of their song.
Still marched Duke Richard at his side,
And still the Abbot was his guide.
A different train received the guest,
Soon as he moved from his short rest:
Soldiers, with helm and pike arrayed,
Lined the long walk of cloister-shade,
That lay between the abbey aisle
And royal lodge, a stately pile.
A royal homage still they paid
In the meek hymn the trumpets played.
How felt the King, when close he viewed
Hands drenched with his good people’s blood,
And looks that said they held in ward,
And still would hold, their sovereign lord!

XV.

In the KING’S PARLOUR waited now
Poor banquet, served in saddest mood,
Where pages round their monarch bow,
And captive knights indignant stood.
To view their injured King bestow
His speech upon his subtle foe,
Who wrought this day of blood and woe.
With starting tear of gratitude
And pity, good King Henry viewed
His faithful servants near him stand,
And here attend — a prisoner-band.
Not Richard’s truth, nor courtesy,
Had placed them here, but policy.
And Henry, though not thus deceived,
Such art instead of truth received.
Fill not for him the wassail-bowl,
Strike not the minstrel-string;
These may not o’er his saddened soul
Their brief delirium fling:
For he has passed among the dead,
And Truth’s great lesson there has read,
As from each face the mask she drew,
And showed what phantoms we pursue!
While to his wandering troubled eye,
Life’s strifeful progress seemed one sigh!

XVI.

But short repose the banquet gave,
Ere Warwick and Earl Salisbury crave
Audience of him they still call King;
And many a wily guest they bring.
Straight from the field they came in haste,
Informed on all points to the last.
Now to the Council-room repaired, ‘
With harassed mind, their wounded Lord,
To sign his pardons, and reward
The traitors, who his life yet spared.
The Abbot to his chamber drew
(His heart to Henry ever true)
To gain a quiet pause, though sad, —
Perchance an unseen tear to shed,
And lift his thoughts where oft they fled.

XVII.

Then order to the Steward went,
That hospitable cheer
Should to the Abbey gates be sent
Of bread and meat and beer;
And to each soldier, friend or foe,
Dole from buttery-hatch should go;
But other store of food was small;
For thousands thronged in Alban’s wall,
And every townsman’s board was spread
For victor, or for conquered.
Now, at each postern and low gate,
The Monks dispense to all, that wait,
What fare they may: but, who can show
The groups that, gathering below,
Now stood beneath the reverend tower,
Emblems of battle’s bleeding hour?
Wan were their features, fierce, though faint
From toil and hunger and dismay,
Just ‘scaped with life the deadly fray;
Their o’erstrained muscles quivered still;
Their eager eyes, suspecting ill,
Were watchful yet of all around,
Even on this consecrated ground.
The broken armour’s crimson sheen
Showed what the owner’s lot had been;
There grimly did the cap of steel
Dint of strong battle-axe reveal,
Or cuirass, bearing sign of spear,
Proved Death had threatened entrance here.
All were so changed with dust and gore,
Their nearest friends had passed them o’er;
And their strange, rude and broken tone,
Not wife, nor courted lass had known.

XVIII.

While thus beneath St. Alban’s shade,
Panting, these bands of Havock stayed,
Round crowded porch and postern nigh,
Some outstretched on the graves are laid,
On lower wall some rest the head,
They ne’er again may hold on high.
And some within the sacred aisle
Lean on an altar-tomb the while,
And, flinging down the bleeding sword,
Instead of offering humbled word,
Greet with an oath the watch-monk there,
Whose low-breathed hymn and pious care,
With kindest awe and gratitude,
In all but basest hearts ill passion had subdued.

XIX.

Some, too, there were, whose evil eye
Scowled on the Monks, as they supply,
With kindness meek, due sustenance,
Sweet’ning the bounty they dispense.
“Well may they give of ample store,
Wrung from the land and famished poor,
To bribe us to forbearance now
From plunder of their shrines, I trow!
Methinks our swords have something won
From lazy Monks, who live i’ th’ sun
And roll in riches of the land;
While others, by hard toil of hand,
May scantly live from day to day.
Yet, listening to their cunning saye,
Henry and Richard bid us ‘Nay.’
Let such folks in a convent stay;
But, by St. Alban’s crown of gold,
I would not — I — for them withhold
From treasures now within our reach,
Though Kings command and Abbots preach.”
Then, rousing from his sullen mood,
Such soldier snatched his comrade’s food;
And so displayed to humblest sense
The motive of his fair pretence.