Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  This done, he would disperse his men.

  And bow to Henry’s power again.

  But well he guessed such claim would wring

  Only defiance from the King.

  XXIII.

  And this was Lancaster’s reply,

  That rather than to him betray

  His faithful servants, he, this day,

  Would for their sakes, fight — live or die!

  And, though long pressed by great disease.”

  And heaviness of heart,

  He swore by sainted Edward’s peace,

  He would not thence depart

  Till every traitor of that hour,

  Who should persist in strife,

  If placed by battle in his power,

  Should forfeit there his life.

  This while the virtuous Henry said,

  A tear of anxious grief he shed.

  XXIV.

  The morn was gone, noon nearly come,

  Yet was not heard the ‘larum-drum;

  Still Richard held a double course,

  And Henry still restrained his force.

  Now, while full many a fearful eye

  From Alban’s tower looked eagerly,

  And none knew what delayed the blow,

  They marked again, in street below,

  A white-rose Herald blindfold led,

  Where high, the bannered rose of red

  Waved duteous o’er the monarch’s brow.

  King Henry, ever duly slow

  To draw the desolating sword,

  Piteous and mindful of the woe,

  That might ensue from slighted word,

  Greeted the wily pari once more,

  And long the message pondered o’er;

  For show of hope and peace it bore.

  XXV.

  And now a guileful sound of peace

  Swells faint to those, who watch on high,

  Bidding their care and terror cease.

  But wherefore, to their straining eye,

  Yon shifting glance of helm and lance?

  And why those sudden trumpet-sounds,

  Mingled with tremour of the drum,

  Gathering in loud and louder rounds,

  Like burst of gaunt and ravenous hounds?

  ‘Twas those without St. Alban’s wall,

  Raising the treacherous onset-call,

  While yet for peace their Herald treats

  And “Peace!” is shouted through the streets.

  And now St. Alban’s monks descry

  A shower of arrows falling nigh

  To Key’s Field, o’er that barrier-lane,

  Where the besiegers strive in vain

  To burst into the guarded town;

  While doubling and redoubling come

  The trumpet’s shriek and roll of drum,

  And shouts that rage and havock own.

  XXVI.

  In street below raged to and fro,

  In wild disorder, men-at-arms;

  And heralds sounding loud alarms;

  And knights, close braced from head to toe,

  Uncertain where to meet the foe;

  Whom, though they heard, they might not see

  For houses and for orchard-tree,

  Till signal from St. Alban’s tower

  Pointed where pressed the threatening power.

  Then Somerset, with brief command,

  In order ranged each ‘wildered band.

  The noblest and the bravest stood

  By the East barrier, near the wood,

  That led to Sopewell’s Priory,

  Where watched, in sad consistory,

  That fair and trembling sisterhood;

  For thence the loudest turmoil came.

  But noble chiefs and knights of fame

  Crowded St. Peter’s high broad way,

  Where their liege-lord, King Henry, lay.

  XXVII.

  And soon from other quarters blew

  Clarion and trump without the walls;

  But even on tower they had scant view

  Of those whose ‘larum thus appals.

  Those sounds called every foot to climb

  To battlement and tower sublime.

  Then not a brother stayed below,

  Whom age did not forbid to go;

  Or who around the shrine kept ward;

  Or some sad priest, at Chantry-tomb,

  Saying long Obits in the gloom,

  Pale with expectance of his doom;

  While, listening to dread sounds abroad,

  His station in the aisle denied

  To view the course of battle-tide:

  And oft the blast in turret nigh

  Mocked his impatience with it’s sigh,

  As if some whispering friend drew near

  To share with him his half-told fear.

  XXVIII.

  Fiercer and fiercer rose the bray,

  Till, every shrine (save Alban’s) left,

  The chantry of it’s priest bereft,

  The silent dead forsaken lay.

  Even he, who, worn with last night’s watch,

  Would fain some little slumber snatch,

  Now startled by the trumpet’s breath,

  Calling as with the voice of death,

  Uprose and sought the turret grey,

  That eastward o’er the Chancel lay.

  The strength of battle pressed that way.

  This little watch-nook hung in air

  O’er the great window of the Shrine,

  Forming a canopy most fair

  For the carved cell and image fine,

  That knelt with upward aspect there —

  St. Clement, in his fretted cove,

  The namesake of the Monk above.

  This ‘battled summit seemed his crown,

  Who had for ages knelt thereon,

  Seeming to feel with those below,

  Whose choral voices, murmuring slow

  Round those sad mansions of the dead,

  Would strive a saintly peace to shed.

  XXIX.

  While Clement thus his fears obeyed,

  And sought this barbican so high —

  This raven’s nest so near the sky —

  More awful rose the battle cry;

  Steel clashed, and trump and clarion brayed.

  It seemed as though the deafening sound

  Rose straight below on Abbey-ground;

  But distant was the place of war,

  Beyond the Eastern barrier,

  And partial seen, by glimpse aloof,

  O’er many a high and crowded roof;

  For thwart the Abbey stretched the way

  Of Holywell, and screened the fray.

  Yet was Duke Richard’s farthermost

  In spreading shock of battle traced,

  By the near, unseen, impulse tossed,

  Like circles from a centre chaced.

  XXX.

  And o’er this swaying of the storm,

  Incessant hissed the viewless form

  Of arrows, shadowing the air,

  Or lightning glance of hurled spear;

  While keen, below, the restless rays

  Of shield and casque and corslet blaze;

  And Key’s Field broad displayed the course

  Of Richard’s and of Warwick’s force.

  Neville of Salisbury fought near,

  Unseen, close at the barrier;

  But firm-set pike and arrowy shower

  Failed to make passage for his power;

  For aged Clifford stemmed his way.

  And scattering, as he went, dismay,

  Fired young and aged, knight and lord,

  And every hand that held a sword.

  XXXI.

  But whence the shouts so thrilling now?

  Why do the townsmen, on each roof,

  Rise earnestly, even on the toe,

  And rashly hurry to and fro,

  As if on level ground they go,

  And mount the c
himney-tops aloof,

  And bend far o’er the depth below?

  Those ridgy roofs and chimneys tall,

  Crowded with heads, like leaves on tree,

  From Clement’s anxious gaze hid all

  He climbed this lofty perch to see.

  But soon the arrows fell so near,

  The gazers shrunk below with fear,

  And left each summit-station clear;

  He then, in safe and shrouded nook,

  Upon the place of war could look.

  XXXII.

  There yet a narrow Green is shown,

  That eastward runs behind the town —

  The place where Richard pitched his tent;

  Small part of the broad space, that went

  By name of Key’s Field; close it bent

  To Sopewell lane. The barrier nigh

  Did long the enemy defy.

  The princely Somerset fought here;

  And, had his spirit e’er known fear,

  That fear it would not now have owned,

  For here no fateful castle frowned;

  And well he knew the prophecy,

  “That under castle he must die.”

  While the stress lay round that barrier,

  (Clifford within and York without)

  So often swerved th’ assailing rout,

  That Richard’s overthrow seemed near;

  But who ‘gainst secret aid is sure?

  What force ‘gainst treachery may endure?

  XXXIII.

  O’er beds of peaceful flowers he came,

  The Knight who flew to Richard’s need,

  With helm and shield on barbed steed;

  Onward he pressed, at utmost speed,

  Glared on his lance the red war-flame,

  Knights and spearmen fast succeed.

  On full six hundred helms appeared

  His badge in gold or silver wrought —

  A rampant bear, with staff uprear’d,

  And this the boastful tale it told —

  “He wins whom I uphold!”

  Fierce was the trumpet’s blast — the war-cry burst;

  “A Warwick! a Warwick! Warwick is here!”

  In Holywell road he was the first

  Where valiant De Clifford kept barrier.

  Though grey his locks in his cap of steel,

  Yet a hero’s fire glowed in his eye;

  His spirit glowed for his country’s weal;

  “In Henry’s cause may I live or die!”

  XXXIV.

  “My Lord De Clifford, Warwick’s foe!

  Warwick calls on you now to show,

  Why meet’st thou not the RAGGED STAFF?

  The Bear would fain thy life-blood quaff.

  Hast thou forgot thy daring taunt,

  That thou through life my steps would’st haunt?

  My Lord De Clifford! here am I,

  Avouch thy boast, or it deny!”

  Soon as his voice De Clifford heard,

  No halt made he for taunting word,

  But cheered the knights of his command,

  And rushed to meet him hand to hand.

  Strong as Disdain his well-nerved arm,

  Loyal his heart, all true and warm,

  He sprang to meet his mighty foe;

  “Who vainly boasts let this day show!”

  Where was his son at this dread hour,

  When Rage and Hatred o’er him lour?

  He fights not in his father’s band;

  Afar he holds some high command.

  But numbers round De Clifford fought,

  Who Danger’s vanmost heroes sought;

  Whom zeal and reverence and pride

  Held close embattled at his side.

  XXXV.

  When Clement from his post looked down

  Close on this quarter of the town,

  And viewed the fateful turmoil there,

  Scarce could his mounting spirit bear

  To loiter here, secure and free,

  While cries for doubtful victory

  Pierced to the very vault of air;

  But monks below, on battlement,

  Who watched how the fierce contest went,

  Of these, scarce one but blessed the day

  When he to Abbey took his way,

  And bound himself to shun all battle-fray.

  XXXVI.

  Hark! Warwick hath burst the barrier,

  And in the surge of combat there,

  Which rolled not on, but to and fro,

  Alternate swayed for friend and foe.

  Each individual form was lost,

  So mingled was that mighty host.

  No eye might now De Clifford trace,

  Nor eager Warwick’s lofty grace;

  Yet knew where each the conflict held

  By fall of horse and crash of shield.

  And oh! what mingled sounds arose

  Above the trumpet’s fiercest call!

  The yell of havock — shrieking woes

  Of matrons, from the latticed wall,

  Watching unseen in houses nigh,

  Who view a son, or husband fall,

  And under trampling charger lie,

  In deep, expiring agony!

  XXXVII.

  Now arrows thickening in the air,

  With hiss incessant, shrill, and near,

  Warned from each open battlement

  The crowding monks that o’er it bent.

  But Clement, in his turret-cell,

  From evil hap was sheltered well;

  Yet wounded was his sight by flow

  Of human blood in streams below.

  Not so the raven’s o’er his head,

  As mute he watched the slaughtered;

  Unseen companion! stern and sly,

  Waiting his banquet of the dead,

  Impatient while the dying die!

  XXXVIII.

  And now, behold the barrier-guard

  Pressed back into the rising street;

  Where houses hide their slow retreat

  From Clement’s view, though hitherward

  The rage of war came nearer still;

  For, on this steeply-mounting hill

  The Abbey stood, part screened below

  By wall and gate and orchard-bough.

  And, while afar bold Warwick’s force

  Beyond the barrier he could watch,

  Yet might our Clement sparely catch

  Glimpse of the nearer battle’s course.

  At times o’er wall, or waving branch,

  Appeared high plume on helmed brow,

  Or iron hand upraised to launch

  The battle axe, or sabre blow;

  The threatened blow he well might see,

  But not it’s fateful certainty;

  A falling horseman he might spy,

  Or a freed charger passing by,

  Or warrior bleeding on the ground,

  Even just without the Abbey’s round.

  XXXIX.

  The battle’s strength still slowly pressed

  Up Holywell, on Warwick’s side,

  When Clement from his secret nest

  Heard ‘larums new and shoutings, wide;

  And looking northward, whence their course

  He marked a troop of Henry’s horse

  Led on by Percy’s self, at speed:

  They came at Clifford’s utmost need,

  With fierce and threatening cries afar,

  And checked awhile the tide of war.

  ‘Twas Percy of Northumberland,

  Rode vanmost of the gallant band:

  And Buckingham and Stafford’s earl

  Led where the crimson flags unfurl;

  And many a knight and baron bold,

  In battle and in honours old,

  And many a youth, who but that morn

  Had first his knightly emblems worn.

  XL.

  To Clement it was dreadful sight,

  This press of noble chief and
knight;

  For now more deadly raged the fight.

  And here the place of war outspread,

  Showed him their armour streaming red,

  And almost every wound, that bled.

  And down the charger’s panting side

  He marked the gushing slaughter-tide!

  In vain the shaffrone guards his face,

  Or neck the mailed mainfaire shields,

  Or breastplate fills it’s ample space;

  Such garniture poor shelter yields.

  XLI.

  King Henry’s bravest warriors move,

  Great Warwick’s hardiness to prove,

  While, closely urged by foeman’s spear,

  The wounded coursers plunge and rear,

  With outspread nostrils raised in air,

  And fiery eyes, that shoot despair;

  They trample back the crowd behind,

  Who, upward on the steep hill forced,

  Press other troops in street confined;

  Then chargers fall, and men unhorsed

  O’er their own dead and dying go,

  Nor horror, nor even pity know,

  Conscious of nought but hate and strife,

  Reckless of quickly-ebbing life,

  Fighting on foot ‘gainst horse and lance,

  Meeting in vain their foe’s advance;

  Till, on the heaped and nameless dead,

  They reach their final gory bed.

  XLII.

  Now other trumpets, blown with might,

  North, East, and West, spoke triple fight;

  But loudest strains swelled from the way

  Where their liege-lord, King Henry, lay.

  There York himself the barrier burst,

  And on St. Peter’s Green was first.

  And now, on summit of the town,

  Where stood Queen Ellen’s shrine alone,

  King Henry’s troops make their firm stand;

  As if each man thought his sole hand

  Fought on that spot for the whole land.

  And from that summit of the town,

  On the four main-ways looking down,

  At every bar, save one, they see

  The archers of the enemy;

  And crowding helms, and ill-spurred horse,

  Trampling o’er the new-fallen corse,

  And forcing back each barrier-guard,

  Mount where that Shrine had long kept solemn ward.

  XLIII.

  That Shrine, where Silence wont to dwell,

  And listen to the breathing spell