Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (268 page)

CANTO V
.

THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

SCENE — WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ST. ALBAN’S.

I.

IN angry gloom the sun went down
Upon St. Alban’s bleeding town,
While sadly many a Red-rose knight.
Escaping from the ruthless fight,
Traversed the woods and wild hills round;
And ever sought he tangled ground,
Pathless and dim and far away
From peasant-foe, who might convey
Notice to Richard’s scouts and bands,
Prowling for prey o’er Alban’s lands.

II.

Oft would the lonely Warrior start
At glance of arms, shot through the shade,
Where bright the western sunbeam played,
Judging some foeman watched apart;
And strange it was, ‘mid brake and bush,
Where only might he guess to see
Sweet violets sleeping to the hush
Of southern breeze, ‘neath oaken tree, —
Strange there to spy a warrior’s casque,
Or cuirass gleam, or steely mask;
An eyeless horror, stern and still,
Amid the peace of leaf and rill.
It was but harness, thrown aside,
Whose cumbrous weight had stayed the flight
Of some sad comrade of the fight,
In the late scene of evil-tide.
These armour-signs, if spelt aright,
Might tell whose footsteps he might trace
Along the rude and desert place.

III.

Oft would he pause on woody hill,
Listening if all were lone and still.
And oh! how still it seemed and lone
To one escaped from battle-bray,
From raging and from dying moan
To Nature’s grand and peaceful sway!
How calm her breathings, pure and clear,
Among the linden foliage here!
How fresh and gay it’s blossomed spray;
How sweet and good her smiles appear!
Sublime her ordered laws and true
Moved o’er the landscape’s evening-hue,
And solemn in the thunder spoke,
That, far off, on the hill-tops broke.
Sublime her stormy lights and shade,
Which all the stretching view pervade.
Her storms no moral evil show,
To work — like human tempest — woe;
But health and goodness from them flow,
Quickly and sure as tears of Spring
The Summer’s fruit and beauty bring.

IV.

The Red-rose Knight, who from the hill
Yet watched where wood and vale were still,
Had ‘scaped, though wounded, from the strife,
And hardly ‘scaped with limb and life.
He fought, until King Henry’s host,
By treachery foul, not weakness, lost,
Were pressed, at all points, on the town,
Deceived, betrayed, and trampled down.
This loyal Knight of Lancaster,
Though not in Alban’s prison bound,
Was not yet free from anxious fear
For friends, who fought upon that ground
And yet he lingered on the hill
With parting look, and listened still,
As if his eye, or ear, might glean
Tidings of that now distant scene.

V.

He heard, perchance, faint trumpet-strain
Marshal for watch some knightly train;
Or neigh of charger, high and shrill,
And sounds perplexed and dubious thrill;
Or ‘larum-drum and shout afar,
The dying tremour of the war;
Or, deep and full, St. Alban’s bell
Roll on the breeze the warrior’s knell.
And he would gaze, with sad farewell,
Where yet the gliding splendour falls,
Along those ancient towers and walls.

VI.

Throned in the vale and pomp of wood,
The Norman Abbey darkly stood,
And frowned upon that place of blood,
Beneath the lowering western cloud;
Till the sun, from stormy shroud,
Looked out, in fierce, yet sullen ire,
And touched the towering pile with fire.
Below, each battled turret seemed
The Martyr’s crown of flame to wear;
While, through the airy arches there,
The sun’s red splendour streamed.
But transept-roofs and aisles between
Lay stretched in darker tint and mien,
As if they mourned the slaughtered dead,
Laid out in blood, beneath their shade.
Slowly the vision changed it’s hue,
In sullen mists the sun withdrew,
A ball of lurid fire, from view.
Yet curving lines of burnished gold,
(Traced where light clouds their edges fold)
Through the red haze, his station told.
Then Evening fell o’er all the vale,
Faded each tower and turret pale;
Till, shapeless, huge, obscure as doom,
The Abbey stood in steadfast gloom;
Vast, indistinct, and lone,
Like Being from a world unknown!

VII.

While the worn Warrior gazed his last,
The death-bell spoke upon the blast.
And now, while he beheld afar —
Himself secure — that place of war,
And heard again that deep death-bell
Along the evening breezes swell,
Each moment waked a tenderer fear,
Each toll made one dear friend more dear.
He marvelled how he could have fled,
Uncertain of their fate;
And back resolved his steps to tread,
And seek to know their state.
Then, through the gloom he bent his way,
Led by the Abbey’s solemn lay.
High music on the soul it played
Of thoughts beyond this earth’s low shade.

VIII.

Though on St. Alban’s tower and town
The shadows of the tempest frown,
In softened shade, along the vale,
Peace seemed to dwell in twilight pale.
O’er the long, fading forest line,
Village and hamlet, hid beneath,
Sent up on high their silent sign
Of evening cheer, the thin grey wreath;
Village and hamlet, that by day
Veiled in the sleeping shadows lay,
Or, in blue distance, gave faint show
Of roofs and social scenes below.
Ah! treacherous to their own repose!
Such wreath betrays to watchful foes,
Scowering the hills and heath-land nigh,
Where dear, though humble, treasures lie,
And the bright-blazing hearth may share,
Though not the crimes, the woes, of war.
To other eyes such blaze might speak
Of succour, that they vainly seek,
For bleeding wound, for ebbing life,
For fainting nature’s last, last strife.
Vain hope, it fades upon his sight;
The Warrior’s eyes are dim in night!
No arm his sinking head may prop,
No light hand dry the chilly drop;
The damps of death are on his brow,
Oh! for some aid — some comfort now!
That NOW is passed, he breathes no more;
Unseen — unheard — his pangs are o’er!

IX.

Where were his friends when he sunk low
Knew they no strange presaging woe?
Felt they no instinct of that hour.
No touch of sympathy’s deep power,
Run o’er the shuddering nerves, and wake
Tones from the heart, that anguish spake?
Like to that lyre’s prophetic call,
Self-sounding from the lonely wall,
Whose only utterance was a sigh,
To hint when death, or woe, was nigh.
Ah, no! they talked, or laughed, or sang,
Unconscious of his dying pang.
No eye wept o’er his lowly bier,
The dew of heaven his only tear;
And sighs of eve alone were here,
Rustling the light leaves o’er his head,
As if they mourned the Warrior dead;
Making his stillness seem more still;
More sad the shade of grove and hill,

X.

Here shall he rest till distant day,
In the deep forest’s untrod way,
Coffined in steely arms alone;
And, for carved sepulchre of stone.
And foliaged vault of choral-aisle,
The living oak, with darker smile,
Shall arch it’s broad leaves o’er his form,
Poor shroud and guard from sun and storm!
The woodlark shall his requiem sing,
Perched high upon his branchy tomb;
And every morn, though morn of Spring,
Shall o’er him spread a mournful gloom;
And every eve, at twilight pale,
His chantry-bird shall sweetly wail;
And glowworms, with their watch-torch clear,
Wait mutely round his grassy bier,
Keeping aloof from his dark rest
Reptiles, that haunt the hour, unblest;
Till other Morn her cold tear shed,
And ‘balm anew the soldier dead.

XI.

There was, who, from her distant bower,
Watched all that day St. Alban’s tower,
As if its visage could have shown
The dreadful tale it looked upon,
And told to her the doubted fate
Of him, on whom her fears await,
Who joined King Henry, on that morn.
Oh! shall he to his shades return,
And through the oak’s broad foliage view,
Once more, the vale and mountains blue?
May then their peaceful branches wave
High welcomes o’er his knightly plume,
Or, shedding deep their saddening gloom,
Murmur low dirges o’er his grave?

XII.

Pale with anxiety and fear,
She in her silent bower must wait,
Her playful infants came not there;
Her spirits ill their songs could bear
While doubtful of their father’s fate.
At times came messenger from far,
With various rumours of the war,
“His lord had late been seen in fight!”
So told the fleetest of the flight.
Another had beheld him fall.
When Warwick burst the barrier wall,
A third, report of fell wound brought;
A fourth, that vainly he was sought.
Slight rumours all — yet each some dread of ill
In heart of lovely Florence did instill.

XIII.

In oriel and in alley green
By turns she sat, or walked, unseen.
Th’ unfolding buds of Spring were there,
Breathing delight upon the air.
Health, life, and joy, by song of birds
As well are told, as if by words.
Those opening buds, that breath of joy,
That song of birds did but annoy
Attention, that for faintest sound
Listened from Alban’s fearful ground.
Oft on the calm there seemed to float
Murmur confused — a trumpet’s note, —
Dull beatings of a charger’s hoof —
The sharper clash of arms aloof —
Tumultuous shout — the onset cry —
Signal of some, that meet and die. —
Whose summons heard she in that call?
Oh! AT THAT moment who might fall!

XIV.

Attention each fine sound pursued,
Till doubt and distance seemed subdued;
She listened then, as if her ear
Could bring each phantom of her fear
In real shape before her sight.
There glowed the terrors of the fight!
She saw her loved lord wounded sink,
And slowly from the battle shrink,
With not a hand his arm to stay,
Or help him, where he bleeding lay.
Farther she dared not — could not, think.

XV.

Aghast and motionless, in trance,
While such terrific visions glance,
She rose up from her pale despair,
His fate to soften, or to share.
And she, who from a summer shower
Would fly to covert of a bower;
Whom thunder tortured with alarm,
Though sheltered in his faithful arm;
Who lived in privacy’s safe round,
And joys in cares domestic found
(The cherub-smile of infancy,
The look of love, still watching by);
Whose heart would to best music move —
The music breathed by breath of love,
The music of Affection’s eye —
That varied world of harmony!
Even she renounced all feeble fear,
Pressed by a danger more severe;
And felt the spirit of the brave,
When her mind caught the hope to save.

XVI.

Till near the falling of the sun,
It was not known the fight was done;
And then, that lady’s messenger,.
With face, that spoke before his tongue,
Of horrors, that round Alban throng,
Brought heavy news of Lancaster;
But tiding of her lord came none!
A dreadful silence wrapt his name —
The pause, ere falls the lightning’s flame,
Might be just image of the same.
Without a tear, without a sigh,
She read dismay in every eye.
Unbreathing calmness o’er her face
Now veiled, with melancholy grace,
Her courage, — moral courage, — love,
That soon their truth and strength must prove.

XVII.

One ancient servant, faithful found,
She chose to guide her on her way,
And search with her the blood-stained ground,
Where dead and wounded still might lay.
In vain that humble steward sought
To win her from such daring thought,
And told the dangers that await
Wide round St. Albans bleeding gate;
And she, who ne’er had viewed the face
Of slaughtered man, how might she trace,
How bear to look upon the field,
Where their last breath the vanquished yield!
How search for face of her dear lord,
Or, finding, live and aid afford!

XVIII.

Florence a forceful sigh suppressed,
Haste! not a moment may we rest.
Such aid even now he needs; away!
He bleeds — he dies, while we delay!” —
“How, lady, may you reach the town,
On public road, unseen, unknown;
And seen and known, how, prison-free,
Escape the grasp of enemy?
A shorter path perchance might lead
O’er open ground of heath or mead;
But that was viewed by every eye: — .
While through the forest’s closer way,
The dim paths far and widely stray.
How reach the guarded barrier?
And, lady, how might you endure
The weary path; or how procure
The pass of posted warrior!” —
“My purse such posted guard shall gain,
My palfrey bear me, while he may;
My purpose will my steps sustain;
Away — to horse! away, away!”

XIX.

By sense of duty thus upheld,
By strong affection thus impelled,
Florence must quit her sheltered home,
O’er desolated tracks to roam.
In chamber, gallery, orieled-hall,
Her home was deadly stillness all;
But stillness without peace — more drear
Such stillness, than the War’s career!
It seemed, as through the hall she passed,
Murmured a mourning trumpet-blast.
She turned, as sad it died away,
And, while the slanting western ray
Played through a casement’s ivy wreath,
And touched the armoured shape beneath,
That stood, like guardian of the hall,
By stair, where fearful shadows fall,
She thought the corslet heaved, as life
Was there beneath, with death at strife.
Perhaps, ‘tis glance of ivy-leaves
Trembling in light her eye deceives.

XX.

Short pause she made within the court;
Her steed received her as in sport,
When fresh from cheer of green-wood shade;
Though now no soft caress she laid
Upon his glossy neck, or face,
Nor gave him word of gentle grace.
Yet did he know her, though the ‘guise
Might wrap her from a stranger’s eyes;
And pawed the ground, in mantling joy,
And arched his crest, and turned his eye,
And champed the bit, with nostril wide,
And laid his playful head aside,
As asking welcomes from her hand,
And suing for it’s light command.