Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (274 page)

SUNG ROUND THE BIER.

To THEE I lifted UP mine eyes,
To THEE, upon the mountains throned!
To THEE, WHO spread the boundless skies,
And hung them with THY worlds around.”
The fathers ceased, and, from the choir again
Swelled o’er the organ this resounding strain.

THE CHOIR.

“‘Twas mine to hear a seraph-voice,
And thus in thrilling words it said,
‘Repentance bids the soul rejoice;
Repentance sanctifies the dead.’”
The choral sounds sunk tremulously fine,
As closed those solemn words — in hushing sign
Of tender awe — sorrow by faith subdued —
Stillness of spirit — meekest gratitude.
Then the full grandeur of the organs rolled,
Then soft, as if by pious peace controlled,
Low murmured, while the mingled chorus passed
From choir and bier, and calmer sadness cast.

XLII.

While rose this chorus soft and slow,
The Knight, in trance of deepest woe,
Listened till all was still below.
And long, it seemed, that pious strain
Lingered below each vaulted roof,
And died, in murmurs far aloof,
Lulling the first keen sense of pain.
Silent, the watching Warrior grieved;
Tears dimmed his manly eye,
While the close corslet frequent heaved
With many a deep-drawn sigh.

CANTO IX
.

AMONG THE DEAD.

I.

Now when the midnight chaunt was o’er,
And through the cloister’s mitred door
The monks had passed and gone,
Came a pale vision on that way,
Ill suiting with the morn of May,
Ere long about to dawn.
It came not, like the lark’s gay voice,
To waken Nature to rejoice;
It came to mourn her perished bloom,
Untimely gathered for the tomb,
In summer prime, in wintry age,
The ruddy youth, the silvered sage;
It came the bitter tear to pour,
The silent ranks of death t’ explore.

II.

Long had that anxious train, apart,
Watched for this hour with fearful heart;
The hour when plunder’s toil might end,
And trembling relative and friend
By feeble torchlight might discern
The truth they sought, yet feared, to learn.
The hour was come; — and where so late
The trumpet’s thrilling voice spoke fate;
And charger’s tramp o’er barrier-stones,
And rattling arrows and wild groans
Fiercely in dreadful chorus rose: —
These, that had troubled the long day,
This tumult all had died away,
And left the town in deep repose.
For, not the watchword heard afar,
Nor measured step of guard of war,
Humming the tune he might not sing,
While pacing near his captive King,
Nor feeble wail borne on the air.
Through lattice-bar, from widowed fair, —
Not these disturbed the stillness near;
They gave it character more drear.
And sometimes Horror’s self would fling
Her death-note from the raven’s wing,
When, from his watchtower, perched alone,
With ravening eye and ardent frown,
Downward he flapped where none was by,
To quaff the gory channel nigh.

III.

‘Twas at this hour of dreary rest,
Mourners around the Abbey pressed.
Fitzharding viewed those forms of woe
Among the slaughtered warriors go;
And, with dread sympathy, beheld,
Of every age from youth to eld,
Those mourners throw the searching glance
For friends fled from their mortal trance
Of fleeting turmoil here below;
Friends, who had felt what these feel now,
Ere their stilled hearts were cold,
The pang, that friends alone can know,
And never may be told!

IV.

He marked some rush with frenzied haste;
So swift from bier to bier they paced,
It seemed they had not time to know
The wounded form of friend from foe.
Yet, where the lawn lay o’er a face,
Distorted sore by wounds and death,
There would they pause some little space,
And shuddering view what slept beneath.
Others passed on this solemn scene,
With firmer step and calmer mien,
With stern fixed brow, where patience lay,
As if themselves and Misery,
After long strife for mastery,
Were old companions on life’s way.

V.

But, who is he in sable weeds,
Whose heart in deepest sorrow bleeds?
Who o’er yon warrior bends the head,
Now laid upon his marble bed,
Near princely Somerset outspread?
The shading cowl has fallen aside,
And shows the mourner’s martial pride.
He kneels beside a father’s bier;
While the priest brings the censer near,
Takes from his boy in snowy stole
The golden-plated incense bowl,
And on the burning embers throws
Myrrh and nard and eastern rose.
The mourner rises from his knee.
Prepared what most he dreads to see;
He lifts the lawn from off the face;
The cap of steel has left its place.
And shows the honoured looks of age,
Around a visage calm and sage,
Profaned with many a gory trace.

VI.

As bends some sculptured form of woe
Upon the twilight-tomb below,
And may nor sigh nor tear bestow,
Nor any living symptom show, —
So viewed the son his father’s bier
Mutely and fixed, without a tear,
While his cheek took the pallid hue
Of the lorn face beneath his view.
That look, reflected on his brain,
Held and possessed him with its pain.
His sinking eyes grew pale and dim,
Yet still they seemed to gaze on him!
Cold dews upon his brow prevail,,
Tremours his every nerve assail;
Till consciousness and sorrow fail;
And stupor dwells on all his soul
With heavy, terrible control.

VII.

Fitzharding watched one mourner long,
From bier to bier among the throng,
Till he paused o’er a warrior dead,
Disguised by wounds, distorted, dread,
And mangled so that none could know.
The helmet was not on his brow,
Nor shield upon his breast was laid;
It rested ‘neath the tomb’s low shade.
But from that guardian shield beneath,
From forth those shadows drear of death,
Mute and forlorn, a dog crept near.
No antics spoke his grateful cheer;
No short quick bark, no stifled cry
Pealed, as when step he loved was nigh;
But by the stranger sad he stood,
And upward looked, in doubting mood.

VIII.

A little spaniel dog was he,
All silver-white his hair,
Save some few spots of red-tawney,
With forehead high and fair.
His lively eyes were hazel bright,
And mild and tender, too,
And full of sympathy’s quick light,
Artless and warm and true.
Full often gaily had he run
In sport o’er field and wood,
With his dear lord, round Alban’s town,
Now — crimsoned with his blood!
And, all for sport, had sought this day
His master’s step afar,
Till, coming where he bleeding lay
Upon his bed of war,
He knew him, through his dead disguise,
And owned him promptly with loud cries
Then, silent, crouched him by his side,
Faithful the utmost to abide.
And when the monks came ‘mong the slain,
He, with quick paws and angry plain,
Half bark, half howl, in efforts vain
Still tried to guard his long-loved friend
From stranger’s foot, from stranger’s hand.
He saw them bring the gory shroud,
And bear that helpless friend away;
Then, fearless, “mid the trampling crowd,
He followed close — lamenting loud;
Nor threat, nor blow, his steps could stay,
Nor fair words his forbearance buy;
And now beneath his bleeding bier,
Though he might shed no mourner’s tear,
He paid him sorrow’s obsequy.

IX.

Now, as the stranger turned his view,
He his lost son’s companion knew,
And then the shield, from which he crept,
Where he for hours mute watch had kept;
Then was the mournful truth made plain;
A father could not doubt again:
He saw his dead son resting here,
And checked no more the bitter tear.
The dog, who late had drooping stood
With fixed and earnest eye,
Soon as the stranger changed his mood
To sorrow’s ecstasy,
Owned his dear master’s sire in grief,
And sprang, as if to give relief
By sad responsive cry;
And even strove those tears to dry,
That now came rolling by.
Stronger no human tongue could speak,
Soothing and comforting,
Than his, who dried the mourner’s cheek,
With tender minist’ring.
The eye, that never tear had shed,
Knew well that sign of woe;
The heart, that never his pang had,
Could sympathy bestow!

X.

Deem it not trivial that so long
Has paused the solemn funeral song
For tale of poor and humble friend,
Where truth and simple goodness blend;
Since gratitude, wherever found,
Fidelity, sagacious love,
In whatsoever shape they move,
Claim praise where griefs abound.
And ‘mid this scene of mortal fate,
Of raging passions, pride and hate,
Oh! soothing, — soothing was the sound
Of artless love and gratitude!
Sweet as, in pause of tempest rude,
The warble of some lonely flute,
That seems its empire to dispute
Awhile — but swells, and dies away
At last, beneath the tempest’s sway!
Thus sweet and sad the memory,
O! poor and faithful friend, of thee!

XI.

Still round the dead the mourners stray,
Pause oft, and stoop upon their way,
Till some known crest, or visage dear
To changeless grief changed hope and fear.
Sunk by degrees the moan of woe,
From those, who claimed the dead below.
Step after step departing fell,
Paused at the porch, in last farewell,
Till all is lone by tomb and bier,
Save that a monk sits shadowy here,
Or man-at-arms, at interval,
Havock’s and Death’s grim sentinel,
Muttered strange phrase ungenial.
Now rolled the thunder, that had broke
O’er distant hills, since curfew spoke;
Now the forked lightning, passing by,
Awoke the angel-form on high,
Beneath the crystal tracery,
And showed each secret gallery,
Where, starting back into the night,
Many a visage shrunk from sight.

XII.

Fitzharding, by the thunder roused,
Thought of the sufferers still unhoused,
Chased from their ranks to heath and wood,
By civil treachery pursued,
Plundered of arms and harness gear,
And hiding from the murderers near.
Then came the fear, that there might stray
His father on the wild heath-way,
Old and alone, robbed of his arms,
Listening each step to new alarms;
Till, worn by past and present toil,
He sinks upon the bare, damp soil,
And, stretched low on earthy bed,
This tempest mocks his hoary head.
Then came the fear — ah no, the hope
Himself might with such evils cope;
Then filled his mind this chiefest care —
That he his father’s fate might share!

XIII.

These thoughts awoke impatience high;
He turned to leave the gallery,
His father’s fate elsewhere to learn,
Though yet below Duke Richard’s train,
Feigning to guard a warrior slain,
Guileful and still, wait his return.
As his eyes o’er the gallery glance,
Seemed a dim shadow to advance,
Scarce shaped upon the twilight pale,
And faintly bade Fitzharding hail.
‘Twas Clement, who, with ready care,
Came to enjoin him yet beware
Duke Richard’s scouts, on watch below,
Where, he had secret cause to know,
They stood to give a dagger blow
To one, who yet their search had fled —
Lancastrian knight — so was it said.
And Clement pointed where, in guile,
Those men in arms within the gloom,
Who traced the Baron down the aisle,
Still lingered near St. Scytha’s tomb.

XIV.

Since, then, Fitzharding here must rest,
He mournfully the Monk addressed —
Wilt thou, meanwhile, the aisles explore,
And make strict search the corpses o’er?
These are the signs thy search shall lead;
Mark them, and then away, with speed!
Tall is my father’s form, but age
Has bent it with a gentle sway,
Drawn on his visage wrinkles sage,
And strewn his locks with silver-grey.
And this the fashion of the steel,
That may, alas! my sire reveal:
Plain, plaited steel; no inlaid gold
Is graven round each clasping fold;
His helmet, all of iron proof,
Is golden-damasked; and aloof
The leopard for his crest is known.
His visor shows three bars alone;
His gilded spurs have motto bossed —
‘LOYAL THOUGH FIELD AND HOPE BE LOST.’”

XV.

While thus Fitzharding, with a sigh,
Pictured the warrior’s pageantry,
While each remembered sign he drew
Gave his sire’s image to his view,
He paused, o’ercome with sudden dread,
As if he saw his father dead.
The Monk in listening silence stood,
With look that spoke his mournful mood,
And bent his head in meek assent,
And on his solemn errand went.

XVI.

Fitzharding from his station viewed
His friend pass slowly on the aisle,
Whose steps his anxious eyes pursued,
Watched every gesture, attitude,
And pause, however slight, the while.
The ordered biers he moved among,
And o’er each corpse inquiring hung.
As slowly on the forms he dwelt,
Fitzharding dread impatience felt,
Mingled with anger and surprise,
As pauses bade new fears arise.
“Oh! need he doubt? a single glance
Might prove my father’s countenance.
Even now upon his face, perchance,
He looks! Ah! now he seeks the crest,
And now the shield upon his breast,
And now the golden spur he spells,
Still on the motto there he dwells!
Would that my eyes their light could lend
Oh! will these moments never end?”
He passes to a farther tomb;
Fitzharding felt as saved from doom.
That farther bier too distant lay
To give his doubts and terrors sway;
He sought to calm his troubled mind,
And wait the truth, with will resigned.

XVII.

Though now were gone the mourner-train,
One weeping form appeared again.
A figure, wrapt in pilgrim fold,
Passed as with desperation bold;
On as she stept, went close beside,
A Monk, as guardian and as guide.
She glanced on every warrior’s face;
And, though she passed with frantic pace,
Yet was there in her gesture grace,
That gave to sorrow dignity,
And drew and fixed Fitzharding’s eye.
He sighed to think, that frame so slight
Must meet affliction’s rudest blight;
That sensibility so keen
Had dared to rush upon this scene.
Where nerves, that had sustained the fight,
Shuddered and shrunk, and shunned the sight.
“She seeks, perchance, a husband slain;
If found — how may her heart sustain
The dreadful truth?”’Twas thus he said,
“How may she view her husband dead?”

XVIII.

Struck with a solemn sympathy,
He groaned, and watched what she might see
A softer pity touched his breast
From contrast, as this stranger’s woes,
And Florence in her home of rest,
Upon his fancy rose.
He thought what
HER
state might have been,
Had she been doomed to this dread scene,
And blessed her in repose.
Her fears must all aside be cast,
If safe his messenger had passed.

XIX.

Some likeness in their grace and air,
On Florence still detained his thought,
And, as he marked the stranger’s care,
A deeper pity for her wrought.
She bent upon St. Scytha’s tomb,
That lay beneath Fitzharding’s eye,
Viewed the dead warrior through the gloom,
And, reading respite of her doom,
She looked, in thankfulness, on high: —
And, as the light beamed o’er her face,
The Baron could her features trace.
Upon his mind, like sudden spell,
Terror and consternation dwell!
‘Tis Florence! ‘tis herself! his own
Venturing among the dead alone.