Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  III.

  A velvet-curtain, drawn aside,

  Showed bay-recess, of fretwork pride,

  Where, on the window’s stately brow,

  Vision of angels strove to glow,

  As waiting orison below;

  For there an altar was arrayed,

  And consecrated tapers shone,

  That such poor feeble homage paid,

  As mortals pay by forms alone.

  Beneath that curtain’s sweeping fold

  Were ancient reliques, set in gold;

  And, open on the altar, see

  A missal, gold and velvet bound,

  And on the step, just pressed by knee,

  A cushion ‘broidered round.

  The down had not regained it’s sheen,

  Where the low bended knee had been,

  Yet there no living step was seen.

  IV.

  The moon kept her still watch on high,

  ‘Mid surges of a stormy sky;

  And, on the fretted window’s pane,

  Illumined the rich pencilled stain

  Of groups, that wake and die,

  As sweeps the varying shadow by.

  ‘Now, as those angel-forms appear

  And vanish in the shaded air,

  Most strangely seemed each transient face

  Some guardian spirit of the place.

  V.

  A moment stood the Knight to gaze

  Upon this chapel’s circling bound;

  The blazoned walls showed helpful phrase,

  And the high scenes of holy ground.

  O’er an arched door, that caught his view,

  St. Andrew’s shielded sign he knew,

  Carved on the stone, and, close beside,

  This Abbey’s mitre-crest of pride,

  Another shield, with wheat-sheaf, near,

  Spelt of the Abbot ruling here,

  Wheathampstede of the lengthened days.

  A moment stood the Knight, to gaze

  Upon the bending form above,

  As watchful in its fretted cove,

  The sainted bishop — Bishop Blaize.

  VI.

  Another form, of air serene,

  Above the Saxon door was seen:

  Saint Dunstan, he, whose harp all lone

  Sounded in such celestial tone,

  As if from airy choir, at eve,

  Whom mortal eyes may not perceive.

  With careful pause the Stranger viewed

  That Saint’s enraptured attitude.

  A crystal lamp, suspended high,

  Touched with keen light his upward eye;

  As if a beam of heavenly day

  Fell, while he watched a seraph’s way,

  And listened, in mute ecstasy

  The slow ascending strains decay.

  So fine the passion of his eye,

  It seemed to speak both tear and sigh;

  And the fallen drop upon his cheek

  Spoke more than words themselves may speak.

  VII.

  He passed the door with cautious tread;

  It to a vaulted chamber led,

  With storied tapestry dressed around;

  A screen of carved oak was it’s bound.

  In lofty oriel, light and rich,

  O’ercanopied, like mural niche,

  King Offa, as the moonbeams glide,

  Glimmered, in pall of purple pride.

  Above, the trefoil-traced pane

  Displayed, in bright and varied stain,

  Th’ allusive arms, or cognizance,

  Of Abbots, long departed thence.

  This bay looked on the platform green

  Of Abbot’s cloister, that was seen

  In streamy light and slanting shade,

  By the tall transept’s turret made.

  From it’s bowed roof a silver light

  Hung, and a trembling radiance shed

  O’er the worn brow and hoary head

  (With snow of seventy winters white)

  Of a lone form, that sat beneath

  Pallid and still, as shape of death.

  The Abbot; in his mitred chair,

  Wearied with grief and watch, slept there.

  And, from such deep and kind repose,

  Such seeming peace of heart as now

  Beams blessedness around his brow,

  Oh! must he wake to former woes?

  VIII.

  To the armed Knight who near him stood,

  He seemed a Saint in tranced mood,

  Or who had breathed his soul away.

  And left below the pallid clay

  Impressed with sign of heavenly bliss,

  Instead of mortal happiness.

  On the high desk beside him lay

  The blessed Sriptures, shown by light

  Of waxen tapers, branching there —

  The study, that had closed his day,

  And calmed the terrors of the night

  With heavenward hope and heart-felt prayer.

  His crown of earthly honour stood

  Behind him, and a purple hood

  Half shrouded, in it’s stead, the snow

  That slept, like moonlight, on his brow:

  His vest and tunicle of gold,

  His ample train of graceful fold,

  And all the pomp, that had arrayed

  His presence, when the King was by,

  Now dropped as cumbrous pageantry;

  He wore his robe of evening-shade.

  IX.

  The Stranger, careful, watched this vest;

  Scarce breathed the sigh, that heaved his breast,

  Nor even the gauntlet-hands ungrasped,

  That, on his first approach, he clasped;

  Nor did his lifted step advance,

  Lest ANY sound might break the trance,

  That spread it’s blessing veil of peace

  Upon the sorrows of that face.

  So rapt the Warrior stood and still,

  His very plume obeyed his will,

  Nor waved, nor trembled on the air,

  But watched, like mourning honours, there,

  X.

  Changed were sleep’s soothing visions now;

  A frown shot o’er the father’s brow.

  He breathed a deep, yet feeble moan,

  As if his dreams had sorrow known;

  And shuddering with the muttered tone,

  The fancied grief, his senses own,

  He starts. A knight in armour there!

  In silence by his sleeping chair!

  How has he passed, unheard, unseen,

  By those, who wait without the screen —

  The page and chaplain waiting there?

  An armed knight before his chair I

  XI.

  He gazed, with startled, anxious eye,

  Yet marked; as soared the plume on high,

  The mimic red-rose, blooming by,

  And, where the vizor overspread

  Eyes, whose keen fire, through Pity’s tear,

  A softened, trembling lustre shed,

  (As stars through fleecy clouds appear.)

  By that red-rose and gentle tear

  He knew a knight of Lancaster;

  And by that glance, those features bold,

  That gallant air, that warlike mould,

  He knew his race and lineage old;

  And, while his knee the Knight had bent,

  And reverently, with humble head,

  Craved shelter in his Abbey’s nave,

  Meek from his chair the Father leant,

  And, with spread hands, his blessing gave

  And words of kindly import said.

  “Baron Fitzharding! welcome here.— “

  The Abbot paused in generous fear.

  “Welcome! alas! that may not be,

  In lodgment with your enemy.

  Ill-come! I fear, in this sad hour,

  Where you may rue Duke Richard’s power

  For here, this
night, his court he keeps,

  While royal Henry captive sleeps.”

  XII.

  Now, when he heard his King was there,

  Fitzharding all things well could dare,

  To see and greet his royal lord.

  But soon the Father’s solemn word

  Assured him the attempt were vain.

  Duke Richard’s guard and courtier-train

  So closely hemmed the conquered King,

  That such adventure might even bring

  Death on himself, and dread to all

  Sheltered within the Abbey wall.

  Nay, if the Baron here were seen,

  Request and bribe might fail to screen

  From Richard’s sudden rage the life,

  Sought by him foremost in the strife.

  XIII.

  Fitzharding felt a flush o’erspread

  His cheek — and sternly raised his head,

  At mention of request to shield

  His life from him he sought in field;

  But checked his speech, and quelled his pride,

  While he stood by the Abbot’s side.

  The Father spoke with pitying sigh,

  “In secret cell you safe may lie

  Till the dark storm has passed by;

  And such a shrouding cell is nigh,

  But must be sought without delay,

  For even here ‘twere death to stay.”

  And, while he spoke, he looked behind

  And listened, in his chair reclined —

  ‘Twas but the hollow moaning wind.

  And then he asked by what dark way

  The Knight this chamber did essay?

  XIV.

  Again a sound; and now was heard

  A heavy step draw nigh;

  He left unsaid the attempted word,

  And backward turned his eye,

  Where, distant, stretched the oaken screen,

  And paler grew his pallid cheek,

  While his dim eyes the footsteps seek

  Of one without — unseen.

  He signed Fitzharding to depart

  And wait within, till signal made:

  But the firm Warrior’s swelling heart,

  His lingering footstep stayed.

  XV.

  From the carved screen and ante-room

  A Monk, with countenance of gloom,

  Came forth with feeble pace and slow,

  With frequent pause and stated bow;

  The shaven circlet on his head

  No scapulary dark o’erspread,

  Nor dimmed the pale lines on his brow.

  Or the faint downcast eye below;

  Yet, as he came with sullen tread,

  No word of fear or hope he said,

  Till he had reached the Father’s chair,

  And bent him low in reverence there.

  Then faint he spoke— “Duke Richard sends

  He my Lord Abbots will attends.”

  XVI.

  Scarce had he said, when martial stride,

  Quick, firm, and true, was heard without

  A page the folded door threw wide,

  And then arose a distant shout

  Of men exulting in their choice

  From court beyond; and nearer voice

  Affecting to restrain the cheer,

  As ill-timed and unseemly here;

  Then steps again, and ring of steel

  From chainlet and from armed heel.

  That voice burst on Fitzharding near,

  Like trumpet on the charger’s ear.

  And even the Abbot’s warning glance

  Might scarce restrain the Knight’s advance;

  Till the pale Father waved his hand

  With look of absolute command.

  And pointed whither he should go;

  So panted he to meet the foe.

  Who held his royal master low.

  No time for speech, or word, of grace;

  So near and rapid was the pace,

  He scarce might close the Chapel door,

  Ere the Duke trod the Abbot’s floor.

  Such present haste became him well,

  Whose lengthened councils and debate

  So long had made the Father wait,

  And kept him from his nightly cell

  Beyond the hour himself had named,

  For urging rights himself had claimed.

  XVII.

  Now, where small Gothic window drew

  It’s open tracery in the wall;

  Fitzharding, all unseen, might view

  Duke Richard in the Abbot’s hall;

  And, with stern interest, survey

  How he had borne the battle-day: —

  He, whom, last seen in narrow space,

  Fitzharding challenged face to face;

  And surely had him prisoner made,

  But for his henchmen’s sudden aid.

  Now by the Abbot’s quiet chair

  He sat, with proud yet troubled air;

  His plume and casque were laid aside,

  For lighter cap, of crimson pride,

  Oraced with the budding rose of snow:

  Dark was his eye, and flushed his brow:

  Ill pleased he seemed, though conqueror,

  As if but loftier sufferer;

  And weariness his face o’erspread.

  Rough was each word, and hoarse, he said;

  For loud command, debate and fray

  Had worn his voice, through that long day.

  XVIII.

  He came to claim the Abbot’s word,

  That he would not in secrecy

  Shield a Lancastrian enemy;

  And some were even there, he heard, —

  Some, he well knew, were in these walls,

  Ready anew to stir up brawls:

  Each such he claimed for prisoner;

  They had provoked the cruel war.

  The Abbot, mild, yet Arm, replied, —

  The Church must shelter those, who sought

  For sanctuary at her side;

  Not mock the laws she always taught.

  He would not, dared not break her laws,

  However high the temporal cause.

  If such men were these walls within,

  Here must they rest, unsought, unseen.

  He craved the Duke would not profane

  The rights his duty must maintain.

  XIX.

  Richard gave prompt and brief reply,

  That lightly he would ne’er defy

  The Church’s right of sanctuary;

  But these were times when such Church law

  Would loose the chain, that held in awe

  The guilty and the dangerous man.

  He would not answer for the end,

  How strict soe’er his orders ran,

  If his men found an enemy

  Were screened in aisle or monastery;

  Then must the Church herself defend!

  ‘Twere better silently to yield,

  For once, the sanctuary’s shield,

  And point where foes might lie concealed;

  Lest blood the Abbey-pavement stain,

  And all the Church’s guard were vain.

  XX.

  He paused — the Father silent sate,

  Reluctant to provoke debate,

  Though scornful of Duke Richard’s threat;

  And, when his look the threatened met,

  His trembling limbs confessed his ire,

  And, his eyes flashed with transient fire,

  That glowed an instant on his cheek,

  And thus his thronging thoughts might speak;

  “If blood on sacred ground be shed,

  The punishment is sure and dread.”

  XXI.

  The prudent Abbot ceased awhile,

  And calmed his eye and smoothed his brow;

  For he had seen Duke Richard’s smile —

  Dark smile of scorn! portending woe.

  “I will not vouch m
y soldiers’ grace,

  No, not in Alban’s chariest place!

  His very shrine may be profaned;

  His very shroud with gore be stained:

  Yield then my enemies in peace,

  And then all fear and care may cease.”

  XXII.

  The Father, rising from his chair,

  In horror of Duke Richard’s speech,

  And heedless of such fear or care,

  Disdained all words, that would beseech

  And thus he said, “An instant doom

  Falls on the wretch, if such there be,

  Who violates St. Alban’s tomb,

  Or trespasses on sanctuary!

  Of all St. Alban’s sons, not one

  But would avenge his Saint, or die,

  And triumph in such glory won.

  And yield his life without a sigh!

  And, for the rest, if soldier dare

  Rive private door or private stair.

  Or climb, in sordid search of prey, —

  For the LAST Ban let him prepare,

  The Ban I shudder but to say!

  Think you, my lord, I will betray

  My church, or break her smallest law?

  Her thunders still her foes shall awe.

  To her high power then, yield the sway,

  The power, that even kings obey!

  With reverend step tread honoured ground

  With proud submission guard her bound.”

  XIII.

  Faintness came o’er the Father’s face;

  He paused; then said with milder grace,

  “My lord, you granted Abbey-guard;

  Give us not mockery for ward. —

  Now, spare my age and wearied state;

  Spare me yet longer-drawn debate.”

  XXIV.

  “Lord Abbot! if, within your walls,

  By monkish hand one soldier falls,

  Blood will o’erflow your aisles, your halls:

  Revenge will then be soldiers’ food!”

  Here Richard curbed his angry mood;

  Then coldly said “he would not keep

  The Father from his timely sleep.

  Doubtless the guard would still prove good,

  While it was viewed with gratitude;

  But certain chiefs, whom he would name,

  It was his firm resolve to claim:

  They were now hid, as he had proof,”

  And sheltered ‘neath his Abbey’s roof:

  Those dangerous men must be resigned,