Then, through the gloom he bent his way,
Led by the Abbey’s solemn lay.
High music on the soul it played
Of thoughts beyond this earth’s low shade.
VIII.
Though on St. Alban’s tower and town
The shadows of the tempest frown,
In softened shade, along the vale,
Peace seemed to dwell in twilight pale.
O’er the long, fading forest line,
Village and hamlet, hid beneath,
Sent up on high their silent sign
Of evening cheer, the thin grey wreath;
Village and hamlet, that by day
Veiled in the sleeping shadows lay,
Or, in blue distance, gave faint show
Of roofs and social scenes below.
Ah! treacherous to their own repose!
Such wreath betrays to watchful foes,
Scowering the hills and heath-land nigh,
Where dear, though humble, treasures lie,
And the bright-blazing hearth may share,
Though not the crimes, the woes, of war.
To other eyes such blaze might speak
Of succour, that they vainly seek,
For bleeding wound, for ebbing life,
For fainting nature’s last, last strife.
Vain hope, it fades upon his sight;
The Warrior’s eyes are dim in night!
No arm his sinking head may prop,
No light hand dry the chilly drop;
The damps of death are on his brow,
Oh! for some aid — some comfort now!
That NOW is passed, he breathes no more;
Unseen — unheard — his pangs are o’er!
IX.
Where were his friends when he sunk low
Knew they no strange presaging woe?
Felt they no instinct of that hour.
No touch of sympathy’s deep power,
Run o’er the shuddering nerves, and wake
Tones from the heart, that anguish spake?
Like to that lyre’s prophetic call,
Self-sounding from the lonely wall,
Whose only utterance was a sigh,
To hint when death, or woe, was nigh.
Ah, no! they talked, or laughed, or sang,
Unconscious of his dying pang.
No eye wept o’er his lowly bier,
The dew of heaven his only tear;
And sighs of eve alone were here,
Rustling the light leaves o’er his head,
As if they mourned the Warrior dead;
Making his stillness seem more still;
More sad the shade of grove and hill,
X.
Here shall he rest till distant day,
In the deep forest’s untrod way,
Coffined in steely arms alone;
And, for carved sepulchre of stone.
And foliaged vault of choral-aisle,
The living oak, with darker smile,
Shall arch it’s broad leaves o’er his form,
Poor shroud and guard from sun and storm!
The woodlark shall his requiem sing,
Perched high upon his branchy tomb;
And every morn, though morn of Spring,
Shall o’er him spread a mournful gloom;
And every eve, at twilight pale,
His chantry-bird shall sweetly wail;
And glowworms, with their watch-torch clear,
Wait mutely round his grassy bier,
Keeping aloof from his dark rest
Reptiles, that haunt the hour, unblest;
Till other Morn her cold tear shed,
And ‘balm anew the soldier dead.
XI.
There was, who, from her distant bower,
Watched all that day St. Alban’s tower,
As if its visage could have shown
The dreadful tale it looked upon,
And told to her the doubted fate
Of him, on whom her fears await,
Who joined King Henry, on that morn.
Oh! shall he to his shades return,
And through the oak’s broad foliage view,
Once more, the vale and mountains blue?
May then their peaceful branches wave
High welcomes o’er his knightly plume,
Or, shedding deep their saddening gloom,
Murmur low dirges o’er his grave?
XII.
Pale with anxiety and fear,
She in her silent bower must wait,
Her playful infants came not there;
Her spirits ill their songs could bear
While doubtful of their father’s fate.
At times came messenger from far,
With various rumours of the war,
“His lord had late been seen in fight!”
So told the fleetest of the flight.
Another had beheld him fall.
When Warwick burst the barrier wall,
A third, report of fell wound brought;
A fourth, that vainly he was sought.
Slight rumours all — yet each some dread of ill
In heart of lovely Florence did instill.
XIII.
In oriel and in alley green
By turns she sat, or walked, unseen.
Th’ unfolding buds of Spring were there,
Breathing delight upon the air.
Health, life, and joy, by song of birds
As well are told, as if by words.
Those opening buds, that breath of joy,
That song of birds did but annoy
Attention, that for faintest sound
Listened from Alban’s fearful ground.
Oft on the calm there seemed to float
Murmur confused — a trumpet’s note, —
Dull beatings of a charger’s hoof —
The sharper clash of arms aloof —
Tumultuous shout — the onset cry —
Signal of some, that meet and die. —
Whose summons heard she in that call?
Oh! AT THAT moment who might fall!
XIV.
Attention each fine sound pursued,
Till doubt and distance seemed subdued;
She listened then, as if her ear
Could bring each phantom of her fear
In real shape before her sight.
There glowed the terrors of the fight!
She saw her loved lord wounded sink,
And slowly from the battle shrink,
With not a hand his arm to stay,
Or help him, where he bleeding lay.
Farther she dared not — could not, think.
XV.
Aghast and motionless, in trance,
While such terrific visions glance,
She rose up from her pale despair,
His fate to soften, or to share.
And she, who from a summer shower
Would fly to covert of a bower;
Whom thunder tortured with alarm,
Though sheltered in his faithful arm;
Who lived in privacy’s safe round,
And joys in cares domestic found
(The cherub-smile of infancy,
The look of love, still watching by);
Whose heart would to best music move —
The music breathed by breath of love,
The music of Affection’s eye —
That varied world of harmony!
Even she renounced all feeble fear,
Pressed by a danger more severe;
And felt the spirit of the brave,
When her mind caught the hope to save.
XVI.
Till near the falling of the sun,
It was not known the fight was done;
And then, that lady’s messenger,.
With face, that spoke before his tongue,
Of horrors, that round Alban throng,
Brought heavy news o
f Lancaster;
But tiding of her lord came none!
A dreadful silence wrapt his name —
The pause, ere falls the lightning’s flame,
Might be just image of the same.
Without a tear, without a sigh,
She read dismay in every eye.
Unbreathing calmness o’er her face
Now veiled, with melancholy grace,
Her courage, — moral courage, — love,
That soon their truth and strength must prove.
XVII.
One ancient servant, faithful found,
She chose to guide her on her way,
And search with her the blood-stained ground,
Where dead and wounded still might lay.
In vain that humble steward sought
To win her from such daring thought,
And told the dangers that await
Wide round St. Albans bleeding gate;
And she, who ne’er had viewed the face
Of slaughtered man, how might she trace,
How bear to look upon the field,
Where their last breath the vanquished yield!
How search for face of her dear lord,
Or, finding, live and aid afford!
XVIII.
Florence a forceful sigh suppressed,
Haste! not a moment may we rest.
Such aid even now he needs; away!
He bleeds — he dies, while we delay!” —
“How, lady, may you reach the town,
On public road, unseen, unknown;
And seen and known, how, prison-free,
Escape the grasp of enemy?
A shorter path perchance might lead
O’er open ground of heath or mead;
But that was viewed by every eye: — .
While through the forest’s closer way,
The dim paths far and widely stray.
How reach the guarded barrier?
And, lady, how might you endure
The weary path; or how procure
The pass of posted warrior!” —
“My purse such posted guard shall gain,
My palfrey bear me, while he may;
My purpose will my steps sustain;
Away — to horse! away, away!”
XIX.
By sense of duty thus upheld,
By strong affection thus impelled,
Florence must quit her sheltered home,
O’er desolated tracks to roam.
In chamber, gallery, orieled-hall,
Her home was deadly stillness all;
But stillness without peace — more drear
Such stillness, than the War’s career!
It seemed, as through the hall she passed,
Murmured a mourning trumpet-blast.
She turned, as sad it died away,
And, while the slanting western ray
Played through a casement’s ivy wreath,
And touched the armoured shape beneath,
That stood, like guardian of the hall,
By stair, where fearful shadows fall,
She thought the corslet heaved, as life
Was there beneath, with death at strife.
Perhaps, ‘tis glance of ivy-leaves
Trembling in light her eye deceives.
XX.
Short pause she made within the court;
Her steed received her as in sport,
When fresh from cheer of green-wood shade;
Though now no soft caress she laid
Upon his glossy neck, or face,
Nor gave him word of gentle grace.
Yet did he know her, though the ‘guise
Might wrap her from a stranger’s eyes;
And pawed the ground, in mantling joy,
And arched his crest, and turned his eye,
And champed the bit, with nostril wide,
And laid his playful head aside,
As asking welcomes from her hand,
And suing for it’s light command.
XXI.
Old Leonard led through forest-way,
And pointed where St. Alban’s lay,
With look of grave and anxious thought.
The sun those lofty turrets brought
Full on the eye, that, at their sight,
Sickened and darkened, as in night.
Yes, though she felt the western blaze,
Strange gloom, all cheerless, met her gaze.
She saw the sun — she knew his beam,
Yet seemed in dimness of a dream!
With mingled grief and terror filled,
Her spirits scarce their task fulfilled;
Yet did her will it’s purpose hold,
As might the boldest of the bold.
Right onward, as the path might go,
She pressed, to meet the coming woe.
The fanning air her frame sustained,
And firmly still her steed she reined.
Though on the Abbey-tower her eye
Was fixed — that tower would seem to fly;
For, though at utmost speed she went,
More distant seemed it’s battlement;
And, though she knew her palfrey moved,
That he went forward was not proved.
XXII.
Though true and good the long-loved steed,
His weary limbs relaxed their speed.
He marvelled at the pace she hied,
And would resent the whip she plied,
(Unused to feel the goading pain,
And fretting with a high disdain,)
Had other hand but held the rein.
Often would Leonard now implore
That, till the forest-shades were o’er,
His lady, for his master’s sake,
Some caution for herself would take,
Nor tempt St. Alban’s dangerous wall,
Ere deepest gloom of evening fall.
The sun was yet upon the towers,
And lighted yet her roofs and bowers.
XXIII.
Florence once turned her weary sight,
And, in the landscape’s beamy light,
Viewed the peaked roofs and glittering vane,
Where slept, in peace, her infant-train.
A sigh — the first she long had known —
Burst from her breast, and fell a tear;
But ‘twas not grief she felt, nor fear:
‘Twas desolation, hopeless, drear!
She seemed in this vast world alone;
‘Reft of her joy, her guide, her might,
Even life itself was desert night.
XXIV.
St. Alban’s, onward as they drew,
Spoke fearful symptoms of the war;
Tumultuous murmurs, cries afar,
Wild roar, that distance did subdue;
And oft, from path unseen, was heard
Horse-tramp, or shout, or solemn word;
And heavy sounds of woe and pain
Led to the steps of wounded men,
Unhorsed and plundered of their arms,
And jealous still of new alarms.
These Leonard questioned of the fate
Of friends within St. Alban’s gate,
While Florence, with attention dread,
Apart, in silence, bent her head.
Little he learned; for scant they knew,
‘Wildered in tumult of the fight,
Of what had passed beyond their view;
But in one tale they all unite —
The plundering fury of the foe
On those whom they o’ertake in flight,
And their relentless, coward blow;
All urge the strangers to beware,
Nor Alban’s fatal barrier dare.
XXV.
Then ancient Leonard urged anew
The dangers would her course pursue;
And Florence yielded now her ear,
By truth warned, not by idle fear.
Under the stretching, beechen bough,
A scene of deep repose and gloom,
Hushed as some lonely aisle, or tomb —
So hushed, that here the bird of May
Amid the leaves began her lay;
Not the known lay of joyous morn,
But midnight hymn, sad, sweet and lorn;
Yet sometimes, as her cadence fell,
Strange mournful murmurs seemed to swell —
Sounds indistinct and dark, to wail,
Or darkly hint, some dreadful tale.
XXVI.
Sudden, where opening branches yield,
Florence beheld the tented field,
Beneath St. Alban’s walls afar,
Spread with the various lines of war.
Broad, moving masses she might view,
And hurrying bands of gleamy hue
Preparing for the coming night;
And trains of horse, whose armour bright
Flashed radiance to the western light;
And trumpet-signals faint were heard
And far — halloo and shouted word.
All that there lived, seemed strong in strife,
But ‘twas for comforts, not for life —
All that there lived! — alas, that thought!
What strife of hope and fear it brought!
While o’er the scene St. Alban’s tower
Looked sternly on the passing hour.
XXVII.
To this wild scene of war’s array, —
Where busy atoms of a day,
Entrusted with brief rule, had proved
By what slight springs their force is moved,
Opposed — great Nature tranquil lay.
Though on the hills, far to the West,
Dark thunder-shadows awful rest,
There power and grandeur seem combined
With stillness, as of brooding mind.
The purple gloom lay deep and wide,
Save where the umbered splendours glide
Broadly and silent o’er the vale,
And touch with life the forests pale.
XXVIII.
While Florence watched, beneath the shade,
The camp in Key’s-Field now arrayed,
She shrunk, as danger seemed more near,
Yet found impatience conquering fear;
And, urging on a rapid flight,
Ere hindered by advancing night,
She looked, perchance, upon the way,
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 253