Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  And Henry, sufferer in his place,

  Stood o’er his grave, in sanctuary

  From his own rebel soldiery!

  Oh! who may dare unfold

  The darkening thoughts that o’er his spirit rolled,

  And from his memory threatened soon to sweep

  All paler records of long years, that weep,

  While, thus a captive, with his foe he bent

  Silent o’er bleeding Gloucester’s monument.

  VIII.

  When service in the Choir was o’er,

  The Monarch and his train

  Passed onward to the cloister-door,

  Led by the Abbot, as before,

  With the full chaunted strain,

  To rest in royal chambers nigh,

  The honoured Abbot’s guarded guest,

  Beneath the velvet canopy,

  Whose couch he oft in peace had pressed.

  How different is his present state

  From that he once had known, -

  When Westminster proclaimed his fate

  Was France and England’s throne;

  When, passing from the tapers’ glare,

  Just cumbered with his crown of care,

  With infant smile he laughed to see

  Such crowds and blaze of pageantry!

  IX.

  Ah! had he dimly then perceived

  The secret of the gift received,

  Stained with the blood of former times,

  And thickly set with deadly crimes,

  Gleaming with woes and passions dire

  From ‘mid Ambition’s smouldering fire,

  How had he shrunk, and wished to lie

  “In shades of quiet privacy!”

  And, ere he wore it for his own,

  Renounced at once his father’s crown.

  Now, all it’s terrors blazed, confest,

  And peace for ever left his breast.

  Yet might he not his path retread,

  And give from his anointed head

  The diadem his fathers gave,

  Which fixed him for a party’s slave.

  X.

  Hard was the heart, and stern the mind,

  And to it’s own contentment blind,

  That could unloose a kingdom’s woes,

  Within that painful crown confined,

  While firm it circled Henry’s brows;

  That could a selfish, slumbering right

  Rouse from it’s lair in Time’s dim night;

  Cry “Havock!”’and pursue the prey

  But for Ambition’s holiday!

  Hard was the heart, and dark the mind!

  Such his, who Henry’s path beside

  Marched where the convent-train inclined,

  Beneath the Transept’s vaulted pride.

  XI.

  And thus was ranged the stately march,

  When the King passed the Transept-arch: —

  On his right-hand the Abbot walked,

  Mitred and in his cope of gold,

  The pious monarch’s gift of old;

  And on his left Duke Richard stalked.

  Straight from the place of war came he,

  Nor moment spared his casque to free;

  Aloft the white plume proudly rose,

  But soiled with crimson were it’s snows,

  And Henry paid a bitter tear

  For every gore-drop speaking there.

  Beneath, the lion-passant crest

  His royal lineage professed;

  And vizor up might darkly show

  The meaning of his anxious brow;

  While Richard’s form and stately grace,

  His stature high, and martial pace,

  Decisive look, and eye of fire,

  Steady, though keen, and quick and dire,

  Gave contrast to King Henry’s air.

  Who, wan from wound, from grief and care,

  Moved with unequal step and slow,

  With wearied countenance of woe,

  And weeping, with uplifted eye

  Of meekness and of piety.

  XII.

  The reverend father, by his side,

  Though pale and bowed with care and age,

  Still showed an aspect dignified,

  A look of mildly-tempered pride,

  Such as doth love and awe engage.

  As some tall arch, in fretted state,

  Left lonely ‘mid the wrecks of fate,

  Though perished be each gorgeous stain

  That coloured high the storied pane;

  Though broken be the moulded line,

  That flowed with grandeur of design;

  Though shades of many a hoary year

  With lights of silver grey are there;

  Th’ awakened mind YET MORE supplies

  Than Time has stolen from our eyes;

  And o’er the ruin’s desert space,

  That arch throws high and shadowy grace,

  Wraps us in pleasures almost holy

  Of reverence, love and melancholy.

  XIII.

  Through the great cloister passed the train,

  Where the carved trefoil windows glowed

  With many a rich illumined pane,

  By living Whetehampstede bestowed.

  Large was the verdant plain within,

  High the arched walks encompassing.

  Now darkened was that long-stretched way

  With Alban’s hundred monks; though gay

  In scarlet copes went Chancellor,

  The noble Steward, Seneschal,

  And officers in the rich pall

  They wore on solemn festival;

  In snowy state, each Chorister,

  Chaunting before the mournful King,

  Till he had reached that guarded door,

  Where, tall and light, the arches soar

  That lift the Chapter’s vaulted ring.

  XIV.

  Then part the King and priestly band,

  Who, in long line, on either hand

  Bend lowly, as he moves along,

  Smiling upon the cowled throng,

  To the last murmur of their song.

  Still marched Duke Richard at his side,

  And still the Abbot was his guide.

  A different train received the guest,

  Soon as he moved from his short rest:

  Soldiers, with helm and pike arrayed,

  Lined the long walk of cloister-shade,

  That lay between the abbey aisle

  And royal lodge, a stately pile.

  A royal homage still they paid

  In the meek hymn the trumpets played.

  How felt the King, when close he viewed

  Hands drenched with his good people’s blood,

  And looks that said they held in ward,

  And still would hold, their sovereign lord!

  XV.

  In the KING’S PARLOUR waited now

  Poor banquet, served in saddest mood,

  Where pages round their monarch bow,

  And captive knights indignant stood.

  To view their injured King bestow

  His speech upon his subtle foe,

  Who wrought this day of blood and woe.

  With starting tear of gratitude

  And pity, good King Henry viewed

  His faithful servants near him stand,

  And here attend — a prisoner-band.

  Not Richard’s truth, nor courtesy,

  Had placed them here, but policy.

  And Henry, though not thus deceived,

  Such art instead of truth received.

  Fill not for him the wassail-bowl,

  Strike not the minstrel-string;

  These may not o’er his saddened soul

  Their brief delirium fling:

  For he has passed among the dead,

  And Truth’s great lesson there has read,

  As from each face the mask she drew,

  And showed what phantoms we pursue!


  While to his wandering troubled eye,

  Life’s strifeful progress seemed one sigh!

  XVI.

  But short repose the banquet gave,

  Ere Warwick and Earl Salisbury crave

  Audience of him they still call King;

  And many a wily guest they bring.

  Straight from the field they came in haste,

  Informed on all points to the last.

  Now to the Council-room repaired, ‘

  With harassed mind, their wounded Lord,

  To sign his pardons, and reward

  The traitors, who his life yet spared.

  The Abbot to his chamber drew

  (His heart to Henry ever true)

  To gain a quiet pause, though sad, —

  Perchance an unseen tear to shed,

  And lift his thoughts where oft they fled.

  XVII.

  Then order to the Steward went,

  That hospitable cheer

  Should to the Abbey gates be sent

  Of bread and meat and beer;

  And to each soldier, friend or foe,

  Dole from buttery-hatch should go;

  But other store of food was small;

  For thousands thronged in Alban’s wall,

  And every townsman’s board was spread

  For victor, or for conquered.

  Now, at each postern and low gate,

  The Monks dispense to all, that wait,

  What fare they may: but, who can show

  The groups that, gathering below,

  Now stood beneath the reverend tower,

  Emblems of battle’s bleeding hour?

  Wan were their features, fierce, though faint

  From toil and hunger and dismay,

  Just ‘scaped with life the deadly fray;

  Their o’erstrained muscles quivered still;

  Their eager eyes, suspecting ill,

  Were watchful yet of all around,

  Even on this consecrated ground.

  The broken armour’s crimson sheen

  Showed what the owner’s lot had been;

  There grimly did the cap of steel

  Dint of strong battle-axe reveal,

  Or cuirass, bearing sign of spear,

  Proved Death had threatened entrance here.

  All were so changed with dust and gore,

  Their nearest friends had passed them o’er;

  And their strange, rude and broken tone,

  Not wife, nor courted lass had known.

  XVIII.

  While thus beneath St. Alban’s shade,

  Panting, these bands of Havock stayed,

  Round crowded porch and postern nigh,

  Some outstretched on the graves are laid,

  On lower wall some rest the head,

  They ne’er again may hold on high.

  And some within the sacred aisle

  Lean on an altar-tomb the while,

  And, flinging down the bleeding sword,

  Instead of offering humbled word,

  Greet with an oath the watch-monk there,

  Whose low-breathed hymn and pious care,

  With kindest awe and gratitude,

  In all but basest hearts ill passion had subdued.

  XIX.

  Some, too, there were, whose evil eye

  Scowled on the Monks, as they supply,

  With kindness meek, due sustenance,

  Sweet’ning the bounty they dispense.

  “Well may they give of ample store,

  Wrung from the land and famished poor,

  To bribe us to forbearance now

  From plunder of their shrines, I trow!

  Methinks our swords have something won

  From lazy Monks, who live i’ th’ sun

  And roll in riches of the land;

  While others, by hard toil of hand,

  May scantly live from day to day.

  Yet, listening to their cunning saye,

  Henry and Richard bid us ‘Nay.’

  Let such folks in a convent stay;

  But, by St. Alban’s crown of gold,

  I would not — I — for them withhold

  From treasures now within our reach,

  Though Kings command and Abbots preach.”

  Then, rousing from his sullen mood,

  Such soldier snatched his comrade’s food;

  And so displayed to humblest sense

  The motive of his fair pretence.

  CANTO V.

  THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

  SCENE — WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ST. ALBAN’S.

  I.

  IN angry gloom the sun went down

  Upon St. Alban’s bleeding town,

  While sadly many a Red-rose knight.

  Escaping from the ruthless fight,

  Traversed the woods and wild hills round;

  And ever sought he tangled ground,

  Pathless and dim and far away

  From peasant-foe, who might convey

  Notice to Richard’s scouts and bands,

  Prowling for prey o’er Alban’s lands.

  II.

  Oft would the lonely Warrior start

  At glance of arms, shot through the shade,

  Where bright the western sunbeam played,

  Judging some foeman watched apart;

  And strange it was, ‘mid brake and bush,

  Where only might he guess to see

  Sweet violets sleeping to the hush

  Of southern breeze, ‘neath oaken tree, —

  Strange there to spy a warrior’s casque,

  Or cuirass gleam, or steely mask;

  An eyeless horror, stern and still,

  Amid the peace of leaf and rill.

  It was but harness, thrown aside,

  Whose cumbrous weight had stayed the flight

  Of some sad comrade of the fight,

  In the late scene of evil-tide.

  These armour-signs, if spelt aright,

  Might tell whose footsteps he might trace

  Along the rude and desert place.

  III.

  Oft would he pause on woody hill,

  Listening if all were lone and still.

  And oh! how still it seemed and lone

  To one escaped from battle-bray,

  From raging and from dying moan

  To Nature’s grand and peaceful sway!

  How calm her breathings, pure and clear,

  Among the linden foliage here!

  How fresh and gay it’s blossomed spray;

  How sweet and good her smiles appear!

  Sublime her ordered laws and true

  Moved o’er the landscape’s evening-hue,

  And solemn in the thunder spoke,

  That, far off, on the hill-tops broke.

  Sublime her stormy lights and shade,

  Which all the stretching view pervade.

  Her storms no moral evil show,

  To work — like human tempest — woe;

  But health and goodness from them flow,

  Quickly and sure as tears of Spring

  The Summer’s fruit and beauty bring.

  IV.

  The Red-rose Knight, who from the hill

  Yet watched where wood and vale were still,

  Had ‘scaped, though wounded, from the strife,

  And hardly ‘scaped with limb and life.

  He fought, until King Henry’s host,

  By treachery foul, not weakness, lost,

  Were pressed, at all points, on the town,

  Deceived, betrayed, and trampled down.

  This loyal Knight of Lancaster,

  Though not in Alban’s prison bound,

  Was not yet free from anxious fear

  For friends, who fought upon that ground

  And yet he lingered on the hill

  With parting look, and listened still,

  As if his eye, or ear, might glean

  Tidings of that now distant scene.

&nb
sp; V.

  He heard, perchance, faint trumpet-strain

  Marshal for watch some knightly train;

  Or neigh of charger, high and shrill,

  And sounds perplexed and dubious thrill;

  Or ‘larum-drum and shout afar,

  The dying tremour of the war;

  Or, deep and full, St. Alban’s bell

  Roll on the breeze the warrior’s knell.

  And he would gaze, with sad farewell,

  Where yet the gliding splendour falls,

  Along those ancient towers and walls.

  VI.

  Throned in the vale and pomp of wood,

  The Norman Abbey darkly stood,

  And frowned upon that place of blood,

  Beneath the lowering western cloud;

  Till the sun, from stormy shroud,

  Looked out, in fierce, yet sullen ire,

  And touched the towering pile with fire.

  Below, each battled turret seemed

  The Martyr’s crown of flame to wear;

  While, through the airy arches there,

  The sun’s red splendour streamed.

  But transept-roofs and aisles between

  Lay stretched in darker tint and mien,

  As if they mourned the slaughtered dead,

  Laid out in blood, beneath their shade.

  Slowly the vision changed it’s hue,

  In sullen mists the sun withdrew,

  A ball of lurid fire, from view.

  Yet curving lines of burnished gold,

  (Traced where light clouds their edges fold)

  Through the red haze, his station told.

  Then Evening fell o’er all the vale,

  Faded each tower and turret pale;

  Till, shapeless, huge, obscure as doom,

  The Abbey stood in steadfast gloom;

  Vast, indistinct, and lone,

  Like Being from a world unknown!

  VII.

  While the worn Warrior gazed his last,

  The death-bell spoke upon the blast.

  And now, while he beheld afar —

  Himself secure — that place of war,

  And heard again that deep death-bell

  Along the evening breezes swell,

  Each moment waked a tenderer fear,

  Each toll made one dear friend more dear.

  He marvelled how he could have fled,

  Uncertain of their fate;

  And back resolved his steps to tread,

  And seek to know their state.