Of unknown worlds; or downward urge,
Through ages dim, your steadfast sight,
And trace their shapes of shadowed light,
O come “with meek submitted thought,”
With lifted eye, by Rapture taught,
And o’er your head the gloom shall rise
Of monkish chambers, still and wide,
As once they stood; and to your eyes
Group after group shall slowly glide,
And here again their duties ply,
As they were wont, long ages by.
The twilight broods not yet so deep,
But we may trace where now they sleep
Beneath the sullen turf, aloof,
And where each solemn chamber’s roof
Drew it’s strong vaulting o’er their frames,
But urged on human praise no Claims,
Nor always bore their living mimes.
X.
On yonder brow, that fronts the West,
Where glimmering beams in stillness rest,
Once rose the Abbot’s Hall of Right,
That wont to view Ver’s stream below
And shallow valley Westward go
To farthest hills, that owned his might;
And from those farthest hills were teen,
Through oaken boughs of stretching green,
The fretted window of that hall,
The pinnacle, that crowned it’s wall,
And seemed to watch it’s portal grey,
With crimson light tinged by the setting ray.
XI.
Thus rose the Abbot’s vaulted Hall,
Where he, in virtue of the palle,
Spoke doom to all his vassal throng;
For life and death were on his tongue,
And scarce less ready to fulfill
His worldly, than his better will,
Were peasant, vavasour, and knight,
From London’s wall to Beechwood’s height.
His weighty robe of velvet fold
Was ‘broidered round, and clasped with gold.
A Prior helped his office to sustain,
A hundred monks did dignify his reign.
Pale were they and closely shorn,
Heedless they were of human scorn
And arts that wait on human pride;
In patience each with other vied.
‘Mong such had Matthew Paris stood,
Pious, learned, wise and good,
Though shrouded in a bigot’s hood.
XII.
Here, where the deeper shadows fall,
Once echoed o’er the paved hall
The weary step and staff of him,
Who, at this lonely hour and dim,
The last chill hour of eventide,
Had heard from yonder bleak hill side,
Where once stood Roman Verulam,
Faint o’er the wintry waters come
The bell of Compline, chiming slow
From forth this Abbey’s unseen tower,
And spied, amid the shades below,
The hearth-blaze in the stranger’s bower;
For here the Pilgrim’s Lodge arose,
Whose porch and hall and parlour warm
And well-dosed chambers of repose
Received him from the rushing storm.
XIII.
And, when he reached the cheering blaze,
How sweet to think upon those ways,
As the shrill wind and sleety rain
Against the casements strove in vain.
But crowding thoughts soon chased repose,
And nigh to sacred rapture rose,
As now he knew himself so near
The object of his long career,
And, safely placed, where all around
Was ancient, consecrated ground;
The precinct sought o’er sea and shore, —
The grave of him, whose sufferings o’er
Had now their glorious triumph found!
XIV.
There the Scriptorium spread it’s gloom,
To dead and living, like one tomb;
The living there like dead might show,
So mutely sat they, ranged in row;
Scarce seen to move, from hour to hour,
Copying the written folio rare,
Or tracing bird, or curious flower,
Round blessed Mary in her bower,
In splendid gold and colours fair,
On missal leaf, with painful care,
Or portraiture of Donor good,
That, closely kept and seldom viewed,
Still fresh and glorious should be
For century following century.
XV.
Others there were, who volumes bouqd
In silk, or velvet, ‘broidered round
And ‘bossed with gold and gems of price,
Enclasped with emerald palm-leaf thrice.
On the high WINDOW near would shine,
Transparent, the memorial line
Of him, who once had wrought below,
With patient hand and earnest brow;
Him, whose small pencil thus enshrined
In book of GOLDEN RECORD true,
The image and the noble mind,
And thanks to benefactor due.
There shadowed Kings and Abbots pass,
In crowned pomp, or sweeping palle,
Like spectres o’er some wizard’s glass.
There, as the lifted pages fall,
They rise to view and disappear,
As year steals silent after year,
Till came the blank leaf, turned o’er all!
Even o’er him, while here he wrought
On the dull page the living thought.
In after-time were here impressed
Those wondrous characters combined,
That stamp upon the paper vest
At once, the image of the mind.
The second Abbey this in all the land,
That stretched to learning a preserving hand
XVI.
Here cloister-walks, in spacious square,
Showed sacred story, painted fair.
And portraiture of famous men,
Who seemed to live and speak again,
In golden maxims from the walls.
Nobly these cloisters ranged along
By chapels, chambers, courts and halls,
Dividing from the cowled throng,
As with a dim and pillared aisle,
The Royal lodging’s stately pile.
There the Queen’s parlour, and her bower,
Hung o’er the sunny southern glade;
And here the place of monarch-power
Gleamed through the Abbey’s farther shade.
The foliaged arch, the well-carved door
Of chamber, hung from vault to floor
With storied scene, or cloth of gold,
Or ‘broidered velvet’s purple fold,
Rose beauteous to the taste of yore.
And slender shafts, entwined with flowers,
Lifted their high o’erarching bowers,
Traced forth with mimic skill so true,
Kings seemed their Windsor’s groves to view.
XVII.
The high-carved chimney’s canopy
Spread broad o’er half a blazing tree,
With pinnacle and mitre wrought
And shielded arms of Mercia’s court,
Three royal crowns; and blazonry
Of many an abbot lying near
In choir, or cloister, on his bier.
High in the midst a marble farm
Stood in it’s tabernacle shade,
Pale as the gleam of April storm;
Oft was the passing monk afraid;
So sternly watched the downcast eye!
Yet hardly might such monk know why.
On the brow a kingly crown it wore,
In it’s hand a Mercian sceptre bore;
‘Tw
as Offa stood there on his fretted throne,
Whom these holy walls for their founder own,
Who Charlemagne for foe and friend had known.
And in that chamber, not in vain,
With mullions light and roial pane,
Rose th’ oriel window’s triple arch,
That pictured forth the solemn march
Of Offa, with his pilgrim train.
XVIII.
Within these walls there was one scene,
Where worldly matters were discussed;
It was the Prior’s cloister-green;
There ruled he, by the Abbot’s trust.
For not amid the noise of men,
Disturbed by their familiar ken,
Dwelt the Lord Abbot; his recess
Was little easy of access;
No by the southern transept rose
(The shelves with store of learning fraught)
His Lodge and Cloister of repose,
His bower, where all apart he sought,
From convent-state and homage free,
Leisure and learned dignity.
XIX.
Lost now that Study’s farther shade,
Whose peace no stray step might invade,
Nor any sound of breathing life,
Save when the Choir, in faint, sweet strife
Of voice and citole offering
Praise, such as Angel-bands might sing,
Passed o’er the Vision’s patient head,
Like whisper of the spirit fled.
XX.
Far distant rose those walls upon the light,
The stately walls, with tapestry richly dight,
Of th’ Abbot’s Banquet-hall, where, as on throne,
He sat at the high dais, like prince, alone,
Save when a Royal guest came here,
Or Papal Legate claimed a chair.
Here marble platforms, flight o’er flight,
Slow rising through the long-lined view,
Showed tables, spread at different height,
Where each for different rank he knew.
And, with pleased glance, adown the hall,
Saw Bishops in their far-sought palle,
The Abbey’s noble Seneschal,
Barons and Earls, in gold array,
And warrior Knights, in harneys grey.
There was the Prior’s delegated sway.
The grave Archdeacon sat below,
And th’ hundred Monks, in row and row;
Not robed in dismal sable they
Upon a high and festal day,
But all in copes most costly and most gay.
There, too, the Abbey-Marshal shone,
And there, beside the Abbot’s throne,
CHAPLAIN OF HONOUR from the Pope, alone.
XXI.
Thus the Lord-Abbot, were he proud,
Might muse upon the chequered crowd;
Nor always did his mind disdain
The worldly honours, though so vain.
His board with massive plate was laid,
And rare inventions it displayed;
Each sewer-monk his homage paid
With bended knee and bowed head,
And Latin verse, half sung, half said
On every platform, as he rose
Through the long hall to it’s high close,
Where frankincense from golden urns
In light wreath round the Abbot burns.
The chaunted Latin grace was sung
With pomp of instruments, that rung
The arched roofs and screens among.
And, when a Royal guest was there,
The Abbot, rising from his chair,
Blessed, with spread hands, the ordered feast,
While reverend stood each princely guest,
And far adown the hall might see
Knights, Bishops, Earls, on bended knee.
XXII.
And when came up, at old Yule-tide,
The boar’s head, trimmed with garlands gay,
With shining holly’s scarlet pride,
And the sweet-scented rosemary,
O! then what merry carols rung,
What choral lays the minstrels sung!
Marching before it through the hall,
Led by the stately Seneschal.
This was the joyous minstrel’s call,
In Leonine with English strung:
“CAPUT APRI DEFERO.
*
“The boar’s head in hand bring I
“With garlands gay and rosemary;
“I pray you, all sing merrily,
“QUI ESTIS IN CONVIVIO.”
XXIII.
Then, every voice in chorus joined
Of those who sat in festal row.
You might have heard it on the wind —
Heard it o’er hills of desert snow.
Thence might be seen, in vale below,
Through windows of that Banquet-hall,
The mighty YULE-CLOUGH blazing clear,
And the Yule-Tapers, huge and tall,
Lighting the roofs with timely cheer.
But, ere a few brief hours were sped,
The blaze was gone — the guests were fled.
And heavy was the Winter’s sigh,
As those lone walls it passed by.
XXIV.
Now, ere the Abbot’s feast began,
Or yet appeared the crane and swan,
The solemn Carver, with his keen
Knife, and well armed with napkins clean,
Scarf-wise athwart his shoulder placed,
And on each arm and round his waist,
Came, led by Marshal, to the dais.
There every trencher he assays,
O’er the GREAT SALT makes flourishes,
Touches each spoon and napkin fair.
Assaying whether ill lurk there,
Ere he present it to his lord,
Or offer IT AT THE REWARDE.
The Sewer, half-kneeling on his way,
Of every dish receives assaye
At the high board, as guard from guile,
The Marshal waiting by the while,
And ancient carols rising slow
From the young Choir and Monks below.
And thus, as every course came on,
These pomps an awful reverence won.
XXV.
Soon as the last high course was o’er,
The Chaplain from the cupboard bore,
With viands from the tables stored,
The ALMS-DISH to the Abbot’s board,
And ample loaf, and gave it thence,
With due form and good countenance,
That th’ Almoner might it dispense.
Next came the Cup-bearers, with wine,
Malmsey and golden metheglin,
With spice-cake and with wafers fine.
This o’er, when surnaps all were drawn,
And solemn grace again was sung,
Came golden ewer and bason, borne
In state to the high board along.
XXVI.
But, at high tide, ere all was past,
Marched the huge Wassail-bowl the last,
Obedient to the Abbot’s call,
Borne by the Steward of the hall;
The Marshal with his wand before
And streamers gay and rosemary,
And Ghoral carols sounding o’er.
‘Twas set beside the father’s dais,
Where oft the Deacon, in his place,
Who bearer of the grace-cup was,
Filled high the cordial Hippocras
From out that bowl of spicery,
And served the Abbot on his knee;
Then, sent around to every board
This farewell-wassail from his lord.
The Abbot, tasting of the wine,
Rose from his chair, in wonted sign
The feast was o’er; yet stood awhile
In cheerful converse with high guest,<
br />
Who from the tables round him pressed
Then, with a kind and gracious smile.
The wassail and the hoard he blessed,
Ere yet he left the gorgeous scene,
And sought the tranquil shade within.
XXVII.
Here, with proud grace, did Wolsey stand,
Signing forth blessings with his hand,
And oft the grace-cup had allowed
To move among the willing crowd.
Grandeur sat on his steadfast brow,
‘Mid high Imagination’s glow;
He seemed to feel himself the lord
Of all who sat beside his board,
And, whether Peer, or Prince, or King,
‘Twas meet to him they homage bring;
And homage willed they, since his pride
Had genius, judgement, taste, for guide.
Which held it in such fine control,
Pride seemed sublimity of soul.
XXVIII.
Short while the Abbot d d repose,
When he had left the Banquet-hall;
For soon, where his arched chamber rose,
Would other pageant-scenes disclose
On days of convent festival.
Here, on the Martyr’s annual feast
When Obits at his shrine had ceased;
When GIVE-ALE and the DOLE were o’er;
When Robin Hood had left his bower,
And in the Convent’s spacious court
The morrice-dancers ceased their sport,
And on the rout was closed the Abbey-door;
Then torch and taper, blazing clear
Within the Abbot’s evening room,
Banished the heavy, wintry gloom;
And Mysteries were acted here.
Then, Chronicle of Kings, pourtrayed
From England’s story, long gone by,
In mimic garb and scene arrayed
Awoke the brethren’s solemn sigh;
Such as we breathe o’er these, our theme,
Whelmed in the ever-passing stream.
XXIX.
Here, too, the Minstrels’ chaunted song
Told of their sainted Alban’s fate;
But, oft the measure wound along
With tales of Chivalry’s high state,
Of knights, of ladies and of love,
Ambition’s eagle, Beauty’s dove,
And many a lay of Holy Land,
Of Richard’s and of Edward’s band.
The harpers, in the noble train
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 246