Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (276 page)

XX.

‘Twere vain to tell Fitzharding’s pain,
While listening to the fearful strain;
How oft he shuddered, oft reproved,
And blamed her most, when most he loved.
For courage rash, for passage won,
And high exploits for his sake done.
Scarce might the Earl his wonder speak,
That one so gentle and so weak
The meed of heroes thus might claim:
But greater fear the less o’ercame.
Then Sire and Son to other tell
What each in yester fight befell;
Of nobles slain, and friends that failed
At utmost need, though horsed and mailed.
But chief their indignation rose
‘Gainst Wentworth — traitor to his king,
Whose standard basely did he fling
To ground, and fled before his foes!

XXI.

Earl D’Arcy then the story told
Of many a fugitive he met,
Wounded and lorn, both young and old,
Seeking a home ere sun was set.
In a close wood near Alban’s town,
Laid in a wretched cart, alone,
Sore wounded Dorset, he, with pain,
Saw journeying to his domain —
Him must he never see again!
Stafford’s brave Earl on litter borne,
Whose hand by fatal shaft was torn,
Already on his look was laid
Approaching Death’s first warning shade.
His gallant father, too, was near,
Who to his tomb the scar would bear
Received this day for Lancaster;
Through vizor closed the arrow sped,
That sent him from his steed as dead,
And nearly had the life-blood quaffed:
Yet fatal was not deemed the shaft.
Ah! deeply must the shaft of sorrow
Strike to his heart, when, on the morrow,
He o’er his only son shall stand,
And feel the death-dew on his hand!

XXII.

As this sad image rose to view,
Earl D’Arcy, as in sympathy,
Gazed on his son, whose living hue
Awoke his grateful fervency.
A silent tear stood in his eye,
As passed his offered thanks on high.
Well read the son his father’s care;
Rejoiced he in those thanks to share.
But hark! a low and measured chime
Speaks from the tower the WATCH of PRIME,
Sounding due summons to the knights
For some high pomp of funeral rites.
O’er that west gallery might they bend
And trace nave, choir, from end to end.
The lofty vista, crowned with shade,
On pillars vast was reared,
Where pointed arch, in far arcade,
Mixed with rude Saxon was displayed,
And double tiers above arrayed.
By superstition feared.
Broad rose the Norman arch on high,
That propped the central tower,
And forward led the wondering eye
O’er the choir roof’s bright canopy,
To the east window’s bower.

XXIII.

How solemn swept before their sight
This Abbey’s inner gloom,
Thwarted with gleams of streaming light
And shade from pier and tomb,
Flung by lone torch, or by the ray
Of tapers, sickening at the day.
For now, the thunderclouds o’erpast,
May’s crystal morn its dawning cast
On every window’s untraced pane,
And touched it with a cold, blue stain.
How peaceful dawned that living light
O’er eyes for ever set in night!
O’er eyes, that, but on yesterday,
Viewed distant years in long array,
And lovely gleams of shaded joy
Upon their evening landscape lie.

XXIV.

In solemn thought, while Sire and Son
Beheld the fate of friends below,
Their hearts a various feeling own,
That, saved from every mortal blow,
For them another morning rose,
And brought their wearied limbs repose
Then Pity shed a tender tear
For many a warrior sleeping here.
And thus, at the first dawn of day,
Their duteous orisons they pay.
The grateful thoughts ascend on high,
Like May’s first offerings, to the sky,
That sweet and still and full arise
‘Mid silent dews and peaceful sighs;
Even as the glad lark’s soaring trill,
Heard, when the thunder’s voice is still,
Rejoicing in the breath of May: —
But, oh! that sweet and jocund lay
Now yields to other sounds, and dread —
To bell that mourns the slaughtered dead!

XXV.

But see! a sudden radiance streams
From Alban’s choir and shrined tomb;
The sable veil withdrawn, the beams,
Just kindling, break upon the gloom,
From torch and taper lifted there,
‘Mid burnished gold and image fair.
While through the choir the shrine-lights spread,
Gleamed each tall column’s branching head,
Circled with golden blazonry —
The shielded arms of abbots dead.
These shields, so small and close, like gems
Enclasped the columns’ clustered stems,
That rose in the ribbed arch on high,
And spread, in fan-like tracery,
Upon the choir’s long canopy;
Where visioned angels shed their light
Upon a vault of mimic night.

XXVI.

And now the long perspective line
Extending through those arches three,
Of stately grace, above the shrine,
St. Mary’s Chapel they might see,
Distinct, yet stealing from the sight;
And high, beyond the altar there,
Her image, shrined in flowers fair,
Lessened afar in softer light,
While, miniatured, before it glide
Her priests, who chaunt at morning-tide.
Again that bell, with solemn tongue,
Through vault and aisle and gallery rung
Till distant voices, drawing near,
Fell, deeply murmuring, on the ear.
This was the Requiem-mass of Prime,
The Requiem, sung with honours due,
Of torch and incense, dirge and chime,
When the whole convent, two and two
And the Lord Abbot stately led,
In flowing vest, with mitred head —
‘Twas the full mass for princes said,
When they repose among the dead.

XXVII.

‘Twas then the aged Abbot came,
Obedient to the Monarch’s claim.
Beneath the cloister’s westward arch,
By the great porch, he held his march,
With all the officers of state,
That on the Abbey’s greatness wait.
Of humbler servants twenty-one,
Bearing before him each a torch,
Light the high-sweeping Norman porch
With dusky glare, like setting sun,
When yester battle-day was done.
Then paced his monks in double row,
Bearing their hundred tapers, slow,
That beamed upon each bannered saint
And pageant blazoned high and quaint.
The Abbot came with ready zeal,
Though called from short and needful rest,
And with pale age and grief oppressed,
To give the Requiem’s solemn seal
And passport to a quiet grave;
And weep the tear due to the brave.

XXVIII.

A tear! does Glory claim a tear?
Weeps he upon a Hero’s bier?
The maid, as in the tomb she fades;
The youth, once ‘tranced in Fancy’s shades
The wedded pair, whose hearts are one,
Who lived each other’s world alone;
The infant, that had smiled so fair,
Like cherub, on its mother’s care;
The long-loved parent, sinking slow
Beneath the weight of winter’s snow —
O’er these, when in the grave they lie,
May fall the tears from Pity’s eye;
But o’er the warrior’s tomb should glance
The lightning of a poet’s trance.
Cold was the reverend Father’s mind,
By wisdom, or by age, refined
To simple truth, that scorns the prize.
For which the bard, the hero, dies —
A shade, a sound, a pageant gay,
A morning cloud of golden May,
Glorious with beams of orient hue,
That, while they flatter — melt it too!
And, for such airy charm, he gives
The real world, in which he lives;
And, gazing on the lofty show,
Sinks in the closing tomb below! —
And therefore fell the Abbot’s tear
O’er Glory and a Hero’s bier.

XXIX.

While these last rites, from Pity due,
The Abbot gave, you still might view
In his raised eye, the noble mind
That suffered much, yet shone resigned
Calm and unbreathing was his look,
As though of all, save soul, forsook;
And all his form and air conveyed
The aspect of some peaceful shade,
Contented tenant of a cell,
Who long had bade the world farewell.
Still, as he moved, the verse was sung
For crowds of dead they passed among;
And still the gliding tapers threw
A fleeting, gloomy, livid hue
On every face, on every grave,
Ranged on each side the long wide nave.
Though slaughtered men his pathway bound,
He shrunk not from this dreadful ground.

XXX.

Now, where around dead Somerset
High pomp of funeral-watch was met,
Where o’er his corpse twelve torches blazed,
Circle of light, by almsmen raised,
And choristers beyond attend;
There, slow the Abbey-train ascend,
And, ranged in triple crescent-rows,
Step above step, the fathers bend,
While requiem and blessed repose
Are sung, with long-resounding breath,
For all in battle slain, beneath.
How high and full the organs swell,
And roll along the distant aisle,
Till, dying on the ear, they fell,
And every earthly thought beguile.
While finely stole the softened strain,
And stately moved the solemn march,
The Knights and Florence view with pain
The scene beneath the Norman arch.
Soon as the chaunted hymn was o’er,
PORTCULLIS, on the steps before,
Cried out with lofty voice of dole,
“Say for the soul — say for the soul
Of Somerset, high duke and prince,
And for each soul departed since
The onset of the battle-fray,
The wonted Requiem — sing and say!”

XXXI.

It was an awful thrilling sight,
Beneath this Abbey’s far-drawn flight,
To view her dark-robed sons arranged,
In memory of those thus changed,
Now seen in death laid out below,
Even while the Requiem’s tender woe
Did for each parted spirit flow.
And first was seen a mourner pace,
His mantle borne with stately grace,
His eyes veiled in his hood,
Bearing the princely offering
Of Henry, his sad lord and king,
Where high the Abbot stood —
The sword of Somerset he bore:
A herald stalked, with casque, before.
He stopped below the Abbot’s feet,
With low-bowed head and gesture meet.
Each pious gift the Father took
With meekest grace and downward eye
And gave it to his Prior nigh,
Who held it, with a reverend look,
At the bier’s head on high.

XXXII.

A second mourner pacing grave,
Attended by a herald-band,
For the mass-penny offering gave
An offering for Northumberland.
No pomp appeared, when he bent down,
Of cushion, or of carpeting;
Such stately signs were given alone
To greet the Sovereign’s offering.
Last, for De Clifford offering came;
And when the herald called his name,
The Abbot, gazing on his bier.
Gave bitter offering of a tear!
And dignified the warrior’s grave,
With Virtue’s tribute to the brave!
Nearer the aged Father drew,
Where the chief mourners wait,
And sprinkled there the drops held due
To Somerset’s sad state.
These valued rites alike he paid
To Percy’s and De Clifford’s shade,
And then, with supplicating eye,
Stretched forth his hands upon the air,
As if he would a blessing sigh
On all the dead and living there.

XXXIII.

As sunk the service for the dead,
Deep sighs of grief and mournful dread,
Of pious gratitude and love,
In Florence’ gentle bosom strove;
While on his arm she bowed her head,
For whom her thankful tears were shed.
The Knights had watched the sad array.
Till now the rising beams of May
Paled even the torches’ yellow flame;
And on the vault high overhead,
And on the far perspective, came
A purer light, a softer shade,
Harmonious, and of deep repose,
Sweet as the Requiem’s dying close!
When, sudden, on this calm profound
The war-trump sent its brazen sound.

XXXIV.

Fiercely, though far without the wall,
They heard Duke Richard’s trumpet call
The morning-watch, at rising sun.
Then other startling sounds begun,
Voices and drums and trampling hoofs,
In preparation of their way
To London with the King this day.
And thus, while all beneath these roofs
Were hushed by hopes Religion lent,
The brazen shriek of War’s fell brood
Even to the sepulchre pursued
The victims she had thither sent.

Profaning, with a ruthless tongue,
The holy anthem scarcely sung.

XXXV.

Soon as the Requiem was said,
The Abbot sought the captive King;
To mourn with him his warriors dead,
And his last sorrowing farewell bring.
In contemplation deep, and grief,
Meek Henry watched alone,
Seeking his only sure relief
Before THE HIGHEST THRONE.
Soon as the Sire drew near, and told
Names of th’ unburied dead,
King Henry felt a withering cold
O’er all his senses spread: —
Scarce could he thank him for the rite
He had performed this dreadful night;
For pious courage, that pursued
And that the Victor had subdued,
So far as grant of sepulchre
For those, who thanks could ne’er prefer —
He would have said, — but utterance failed
To speak for those he now bewailed.

XXXVI,

Yet did he praise the fortitude
That Richard’s cruel claims withstood,
And held the rights of sanctuary
For friends o’ercome by misery.
Then for himself he thanked him last,
For hospitable duty past;
For sympathies of look and tone
While he had been a captive guest;
Such as the broken spirits own,
And treasure in the grateful breast.
He willed an Anniversary
Should of the fatal yesterday
Be held within this choir, for those,
Whose bodies here find just repose.
He had no treasures left to prove
How much this place deserved his love;
But with meek look he asked, and voice,
The Abbot would a gift receive,
His only gift — he had no choice —
The offering would his heart relieve —
Certain rich robes which once he wore,
Fit clothing these for him no more!
Haply such robes might now aspire
To Abbey-use; — he would desire
That, for his own sake, there should be
A day of Anniversary,
To mark the memory of a friend —
The day when his poor life should end.

XXXVII.