Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  The lights and shades of Fortune’s power

  Fell not as Nature’s at this hour.

  Her storm frowned on the southern scene;

  Her smile shone o’er yon flowery green.

  Those distant downs, now dim and grey,

  Those misty woods received her ray.

  V.

  While the Monks from this battlement

  Their glance o’er the wide prospect sent,

  They watched the western sun go down

  ‘Mid clouds of amber, edged with gold,

  That did their splendid wings unfold,

  And seemed to wait around his throne.

  A monk, who marked them, dared foretell,

  That gentle Peace would here still dwell;

  But the bold guess and flattering ray

  Sunk alike in gloom away.

  One crimson streak of parted day

  Lingered where HENRY’S army lay;

  Till o’er it spread the night’s dark hue,

  That veiled awhile each camp from view.

  VI.

  Then, gradual, through the deepening gloom,

  Torch and signal-fires relume

  The war-lines on the hills and dells,

  Leaving wide shadowy intervals;

  Yet marking to the distant eye

  How broad and close those camp-lines lie:

  Gleaming as does the Ocean’s bed,

  When sun has set in stormy red,

  And surge on surge rolls crested bright,

  Beneath the glance of parting light.

  VII.

  The other camp, of smaller force.

  Concealed it’s boundary by the course

  Of heights, save where one hill retired;

  There was the dusk with redness fired

  By casual watch-torch through the gloom;

  And there lay YORK, like hidden doom,

  Waiting to send forth nameless woes.

  High o’er that hill the blaze uprose

  Upon the darkly-sullen sky,

  Here reddening on a livid cloud,

  There glancing like the fancied crowd,

  That ride the northern lights on high.

  Duke Richard watched upon this hill,

  While his camp-field was dark and still;

  But that a guard-fire, here and there,

  Lifted it’s lonely fitful glare,

  Where steeds and warriors lay around

  In harness for the battle-day,

  Half-slumbering to the frequent sound

  Of steps and weapons on the ground,

  Preparing for the morrow’s fray.

  His scouts near Henry’s army strolled,

  And to his gathered Council told

  Where lay it’s weakness, where it’s hold.

  But HENRY, trusting to his force,

  Scorned such dark cares and secret course.

  VIII.

  So near the outer posts approached,

  That each on each at times encroach’d,

  And speech of taunt, or civil cheer,

  Mixed with the clink of harness-gear,

  Was heard; and each might view the flare

  From Alban’s topmost round in air,

  That made the tower, in lurid gloom,

  A more gigantic port assume.

  And, silent, on the rocky steep

  Their watch o’er hill and valley keep.

  Each, too, might see dim forms on high,

  Glide, where the beacon touched the sky:

  For there it’s flame of sullen red

  Flashed on a cowled monk’s sable head,

  Glanced on the Abbey-knight beside,

  And showed his plumy crest of pride,

  On the night-breezes dancing gay,

  As though in sun and chivalry.

  IX.

  That monk and knight, with steady gaze,

  Watched where the far-off signals blaze,

  O’er many a ridge of wood and down,

  From heath and camp, from tower and town

  From ancient Hadley’s cresset-flame,

  That peered o’er hills, an eastern star,

  (The beacon-turret still the same)

  Bearing this sign of iron war

  To Cashio’s close-surrounded vale

  And Gorhambury’s turrets pale,

  And nameless lands, in shade unknown.

  The nearer scene they looked upon,

  Glimmer’d in varying shade and light,

  Thrown from the Abbey’s beacon bright.

  X.

  It gleamed on stately bowers below,

  Tinged porch and transept’s dusky brow,

  Glared on broad courts and humble cell,

  Glanced on the crystal Oriel,

  And cast deep shadow on the ground

  From gates and turrets ranged around.

  There, Abbey Lancemen slowly paced,

  Where scarce the portal-arch was traced,

  As flashed the blaze along the air,

  And quivered on each Warrior’s spear;

  Long, shaded walks it showed, that led

  Where cloister-plat and gardens spread,

  And monks, wrapt close in sable weed,

  Passed to and fro, with fearful speed.

  The gloomy light was thrown so far,

  It reddened dark St. Michael’s brow,

  Frowning on Roman foss below,

  And tinged the bridge and streams of Ver.

  XI.

  St. Alban’s town, with wakeful eyes,

  Viewed the red beacon sink and rise,

  And, sought to spell each signal sent

  To good King HENRY’S distant tent.

  And, while they gazed, the changing glare.

  Broad on each roof and lattice-bar,

  Showed every visage watching there

  For tiding of the threatened war.

  Upon Queen Ellen’s pile of state,

  That crowned the town and mourned her fate,

  The trembling gleam touched shrine and saint

  With light and shade, so finely faint,

  The form beneath each canopy

  Appeared to lean so patiently,

  As if it bent o’er the loved bier,

  That, once for short time placed here.

  Had made the spot to Edward dear,

  And listened, while the Requiem’s flow

  Shed stillness o’er the mourner’s woe.

  XII.

  Patient upon the Abbey-Tower,

  From Vesper to the Matin hour,

  The knight and monk the first watch kept,

  While few beneath their vigil slept.

  Later, within the turret-head,

  The monk from the chill night-wind fled;

  But never from that platform’s height

  Strayed the due footstep of the knight.

  With patient eye and measured pace,

  He turned upon the narrow space.

  And listened each imperfect sound,

  That rose from camp, or road, around,

  Or noise of preparation made

  Below in porch and archway shade.

  The massy bolts and ponderous bars

  Of studded gates, that, in old wars,

  Against the rebel townsmen closed,

  Had now so long in peace reposed,

  So long had been unmoved by hand,

  They now the Warder’s might withstand.

  Often was heard the mingled din

  From clink of smith and voice within,

  From footsteps heavy with the weight

  Of chest, that bore from shrines a freight,

  And altar-tombs, to secret hold

  Of jewels rich and cups of gold;

  Though yet was left some little show

  To check, if need, the plunderer’s blow.

  XIII.

  And, when such busy sounds were o’er,

  That Abbey-knight might hear once more

  From the still street, in echoing sw
ell,

  The watchword of each sentinel

  Pass on it’s far-extending range

  From post to post, with ordered change.

  Now low, now sullen, and now high,

  “Health to the King!” — then “So say I.”

  And sometimes, too, a distant drum,

  With stealthy murmur seemed to come,

  Then rolled away, and sunk afar

  Where slept the thundercloud of war.

  From roads was heard and doubted ground

  The watch-cry of patrols around,

  Mingled, at times, with one slow note,

  Swelled solemn from the cornet’s throat,

  And answered faint and fainter still,

  Like echo from the distant hill.

  And, when such solemn sounds were past,

  When slumbered e’en the midnight blast,

  The due hymn from the choir below

  Through the high tower ascended slow,

  While round the bands of Havock lay,

  Waiting but for the morn of May

  To light War, Death, and Treason to their prey

  XIV.

  The Knight sent frequent message down,

  That all was still,

  No sign of ill

  Drew nearer to St. Alban’s town.

  The while the Abbot, in debate,

  Sat with his officers of State,

  And Seneschal, Judge of his Court,

  Discussing every new report

  And message, sent from scouts afar,

  That told the visage of the war.

  Vainly for some they waited long,

  Perplexed Duke Richard’s hosts among;

  Others came, horse on horse, so fast,

  That every quarter-watch that passed,

  Brought rumour fresh and wond’rous tale,

  Bidding now hope, now fear, prevail,

  And still most wond’rous ever was the last.

  XV.

  The pious Abbot, Whetehampsted,

  Of learned men the learned head,

  Closed a late council, and withdrew,

  Needful, though short repose to woo;

  But still the Prior and Seneschal

  Waited the worst, that might befall,

  Ready, if enemy approach,

  For council at the Abbot’s couch.

  He, wakeful long and anxious still,

  Lost not in sleep his sense of ill,

  For then, in slumbers, touched with sorrow,

  He saw dim visions of the morrow,

  Saw round those walls the battle bleed;

  Heard the fierce trump and neigh of steed;

  Saw wounded Henry, in the strife,

  Borne down and pleading for his life,

  And, starting at the piteous view,

  He woke, with chill brow bathed in dew.

  XVI.

  That night, few monks their pallets pressed,

  And scarce an eye was closed in rest;

  Most were from slumber held away

  By terror of the coming day;

  Yet some there were, who, fond of change

  And slaves to envy, wished to see

  The battle take it’s direst range,

  Though round their walls it chanced to be

  And some, who, fired with worldly zeal,

  Would fain, with casque and sword of steel,

  Mingle in royal Henry’s train;

  And others Richard’s plea maintain.

  But each, by prudent council swayed,

  Or policy, their chief obeyed.

  The ordered chime was hourly rung;

  Each mass was duly said and sung;

  And, at each gate, though armed band

  Obeyed an Abbey-knight’s command,

  And o’er the posterns had control,

  Yet, at each station watched a cowl,

  And still on tower, half hid in hood,

  The pale Monk with the Warrior stood.

  XVII.

  That Monk had heard the Vesper-bell

  Call every brother from his cell;

  Had heard the bell of Compline sound,

  And followed every service round;

  And as he heard each chaunt ascend,

  Silent and meek, his head would bend;

  Each word th’ accustomed mind supplied,

  That distance to his ear denied;

  Though absent he, by painful need,

  He joined the prayer and dropped the bead.

  And oft, in silent orison,

  He prayed, that war might spare this town;

  That all who dwelt within these walls

  Might duly own Religion’s calls

  On the unknown tomorrow’s night,

  Now trembling on his darkened sight.

  He prayed, too, that no blood-stained grave.

  Might wait that watching Warrior brave,

  Whose spirit frank and free and kind

  Had calmed and cheered his boding mind.

  XVIII.

  Still Jerome leaned on Alban’s tower,

  And thoughtful watched the solemn hour;

  All things lay wrapt in fearful gloom;

  Time passed in silence toward the tomb.

  Nor watch-dog’s bark, nor charger’s neigh,

  Nor pass-word went the distant way;

  Nor swept a breeze upon a bough

  Of the high leafy walks below.

  The holy hymn had sunk in peace;

  Now Nature’s breathings almost cease.

  In the deep pause alone might come

  The sullen, faltering pant of drum;

  So faint th’ uncertain sound in air,

  It seemed like pulse within the ear.

  XIX.

  He viewed the dawn steal o’er the wold,

  Paling each beacon-fire afar,

  Till, wan and dim as twilight star,

  The warning tale no more it told.

  On the green woods that dewy light

  Shed sleepy hues all chill and white.

  That cold fresh light, that tender green,

  Dawning through all the lonely scene,

  A sweet and quiet sadness wore

  To palmer, journeying at such hour

  Through the wild path of forest-bower,

  Well suiting with his humbled mind,

  In holy grief to Heaven resigned.

  If it recalled the long-past thought,

  It soothed to smile the woe it brought:

  Like touch of some fine harmony

  To one endued with sympathy.

  XX.

  With pious thought and tranced eye,

  St. Alban’s Monk, from turret high,

  Beheld in silent order rise

  Tint after tint on th’ eastern skies:

  First, cold rays edged the night’s black shroud

  Then rose, then amber, changed the hue;

  Then slowly purpled the soft cloud,

  That stretched along the upper blue;

  Where, hanging o’er its shadowy throne,

  The star of Morning watched alone;

  But soon more gorgeous tints appear,

  And tell the mighty Sun is near;

  Till he looked joyous o’er yon brow,

  While slumbering War lay stretched below,

  Whose shrine shall dying thousands stain,

  Ere that gay Sun look up again!

  XXI.

  War’s grisly visage there was seen,

  Engarlanded with May’s fair buds;

  His couch — her meads of springing green,

  His canopy — her fresh-leaved woods!

  Her fragrant airs around him breathe,

  Her music soothes his dream beneath.

  But soon May’s blooms their snows shall yield,

  By hostile struggle lowly laid;

  And soon her young and lightsome shade

  Shall hide the blood-stained casque and shield,

  Now thrown in wilder’d flight away:

 
And many a tortured wretch that day,

  ‘Scaped from the battle’s mortal strife, -

  To scenes of Nature’s peace shall hie;

  And, while all round is breathing life,

  Sink on some flowery bank and die!

  XXII.

  The Monk might, at this hour of dawn,

  Have traced each army faintly drawn,

  Through dewy veil, on hills around;

  And viewed St. Alban’s glimmering bound

  All rich with blooming orchard ground,

  Where crowded roofs and turrets lay

  Obscurely on the brightening grey.

  How dark and still the Martyr’s tower

  Stood on the reddening dawn on high;

  How solemn was the look it wore,

  The peace of age and sanctity!

  Till each dark line stood sharp and clear,

  On gold and crimson streaks of air.

  Flowing upon the early breeze,

  The Royal banner WARWICK sees

  Wave homage to the rising beams!

  And, while that banner lightly streams,

  With scornful eyes he viewed the town,

  “There will I rule ere sun go down!”

  XXIII.

  The Knight and Monk, who watched on high,

  Beheld these rising beams with joy;

  And lost, with joy, the beacon’s flame,

  For now relief of Warder came.

  Scarce would the warrior pause to tell,

  That all near Alban’s wall was well;

  Or change a word of what had been

  From his high station heard, or seen.

  And, with the chilling hour oppressed,

  Jerome, too, sought some welcome rest,

  And left, exchanged, a monk behind,

  To shiver in the breezy wind.

  CANTO III.

  I.

  THE day had risen; the song of Prime

  Swelled soft, as ceased the second chime;

  When now was heard a distant drum

  Through the woodlands high to come;

  And, fierce though faint, one trumpet-blast

  Hurrying upon the light wind passed.

  It was not fancy— ‘twas not fear,

  That caused those glittering helms appear,

  And triple-glance of marshalled spear,

  Upon the high wood’s shadowy side;

  ‘Tis there the barbed coursers ride;

  And, mid the light-leaved shadows go

  The battle-axe and lance and bow;