And drew and fixed Fitzharding’s eye.
He sighed to think, that frame so slight
Must meet affliction’s rudest blight;
That sensibility so keen
Had dared to rush upon this scene.
Where nerves, that had sustained the fight,
Shuddered and shrunk, and shunned the sight.
“She seeks, perchance, a husband slain;
If found — how may her heart sustain
The dreadful truth?”’Twas thus he said,
“How may she view her husband dead?”
XVIII.
Struck with a solemn sympathy,
He groaned, and watched what she might see
A softer pity touched his breast
From contrast, as this stranger’s woes,
And Florence in her home of rest,
Upon his fancy rose.
He thought what HER state might have been,
Had she been doomed to this dread scene,
And blessed her in repose.
Her fears must all aside be cast,
If safe his messenger had passed.
XIX.
Some likeness in their grace and air,
On Florence still detained his thought,
And, as he marked the stranger’s care,
A deeper pity for her wrought.
She bent upon St. Scytha’s tomb,
That lay beneath Fitzharding’s eye,
Viewed the dead warrior through the gloom,
And, reading respite of her doom,
She looked, in thankfulness, on high: —
And, as the light beamed o’er her face,
The Baron could her features trace.
Upon his mind, like sudden spell,
Terror and consternation dwell!
‘Tis Florence! ‘tis herself! his own
Venturing among the dead alone.
XX.
Short was the spell, that fixed him here:
Forgotten every danger near,
Save those, that might her steps await:
Forgotten even his threatened fate,
He rushes on the aisle below,
And clasps that pilgrim form of woe.
His voice recalls her fleeting sense;
She lifts her eyes, but sight is gone!
Her trembling lips, that would dispense
Affection, comfort, joy alone,
Murmur but with a feeble moan.
Fitzharding called aloud for aid,
And would have borne her from this shade
Through every danger of the way,
Even where the watchful foeman may
Seize on him for his instant prey.
XXI.
The monk attendant, late her guide,
Warned him of ill, that must betide
From Richard’s bands, these walls between,
If there Lancastrian were seen.
Then to the cloister straight he hied,
And soon his ready zeal supplied
Such aid as twice recalled her life,
From joy and sorrow’s various strife.
‘Twas he, who found her senseless laid,
Long since, when she a form surveyed,
And, having raised the veil of death,
Had caught the ghastly glimpse beneath,
Which brought to her half-wildered mind
The very form she feared to find.
XXII.
Grief may be painted; ‘tis of earth:
But joy, which is of heavenly birth,
Of spirit all — celestial fire —
May not be known,
May not be shown,
Saye in the smile its beams inspire.
Such smile spoke thoughts denied to breath;
Such smile on Florence’ lips was seen;
It lightened o’er this world of death,
And with its glory veiled the scene!
She saw alone her husband saved!
Horror and grief had vanished now;
Present and future ill she braved,
Might but her steps with his steps go.
She viewed not shape stand watching by,
With curious and with cruel eye.
XXIII.
How different was Fitzharding’s state!
NO joy beamed on his anxious mind’;
But terrors for his father’s fate,
With fears for Florence now combined.
Even at that moment, suddenly,
Might he his father’s image see
Stretched on some marble near!
Ere Florence might be spared such sight,
Or shrouded from Duke Richard’s might,
How might he seek the bier?
XXIV.
To save her from this scene of dread
And chance of various ill,
The cloister gallery he had fled
Seemed place of refuge still.
But her sole fear on this sad ground,
Was loss of him so lately found.
Prophetic seemed it to her heart —
If now they part — they ever part!
All other danger, light as air,
Claimed not with her a single care.
Sure of his life, her peace was sure;
What need of safe retreat for her?
‘Twas not in shrouding solitude;
Far distant woe might there intrude.
‘Twas even at her husband’s side,
That safety was — whate’er betide;
For, come the worst, they share it all,
Together live — together fall.
XXV.
Fitzharding thought not thus: — He dared
Meet woe alone — not woe thus shared.
But, dreading now again to part,
His judgment yielded to his heart;
He caught the courage of her love;
What she feared not he thought not of.
Then, while he bade, with tender care,
Florence for dismal sights prepare,
Her only answers were a sigh
And smile of sadness soon passed by.
She drew the dark hood o’er her head,
And followed closely where he led.
CANTO X.
AMONG THE DEAD.
I.
WITH even step and shaded eye
Florence the tombs now passes by.
While near the choir Fitzharding drew,
Pausing, he points out to her view
Where the three noble warriors lie,
With high and solemn obsequy
Of torches fixed and priestly ward,
And incense-cloud and herald-guard.
II.
By the first bier he took his stand,
And looked on great Northumberland,
Kinsman of Hotspur — him, who died
Fighting against the new-grown pride
Of Bolingbroke, whose wiles and might
Usurped the second Richard’s right;
Kinsman of him, who blazed the deed
Of Richard’s death in Pomfret tower,
Defying the usurper’s power.
And now had Hotspur’s kinsman died,
Fighting on that usurper’s side;
Yet for a meek and blameless king,
To whom his unsought honours bring
The curse of his progenitor,
Disputed right and civil war.
III.
Dashing aside a soldier’s tear,
Fitzharding reached the centre bier;
Portcullis yet was watchful here.
He looked on his commander’s face.
And thought within how short a space
He had himself obeyed his voice,
Soon as the battle-hour began,
Flattered and honoured, by his choice,
With post of danger in the van.
Then every limb with life was warm;
Now heavy death pressed all his form,
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bsp; Its sullen gloom hung on his brow,
And tinged the half-closed lid below,
Dwelt in the hollow of his cheek,
And seemed, with breathless sign, to speak
Of more than human tongue may dare —
Of the last pang, that lingered there.
IV.
His dinted casque, that stood beside,
Told whence had rushed the fatal tide;
Its high plume, that had waved so gay
Beneath St. Alban’s tower this day,
Mantling like snowy swan, and danced
To every step his charger pranced;
As jocund at the trumpet’s air,
And proud the pomps of war to share, —
Now broken, stained, and stiff with gore
Fell, as in horrors, bristled o’er.
The golden lions in his shield
Glared on his pulseless breast;
And every sign, that rank revealed
And royal race professed,
Seemed but to mock his rest.
His honours now — the pausing eye,
The people’s tear, the warrior’s sigh;
For these alone his virtues tell: —
Grandson of John o’ Gaunt, farewell!
V.
Fitzharding, with swift step, passed on
To the third bier, which stood alone;
And here — oh here! the pausing eye —
The sudden tear — the bursting sigh,
At once De Clifford own.
Oh loyal heart! oh brave old man!
And hast thou closed thy mortal span,
With youthful fire, exhaustless zeal
For thy good king and country’s weal!
And, scorning age and shadowy days,
Hast, with the eagle’s dauntless gaze,
Still soared in Glory’s keenest blaze,
And won a circlet of her rays! —
Awhile Fitzharding bent his head,
In mindful stillness, o’er the dead —
Then turned upon his dreadful way,
To seek if thus his father lay:
While the deep thunder’s mystic groan
Muttered, it seemed, prophetic moan!
VI.
With eager eye he sought around,
Through the black shades of this drear ground,
And, while the lightning quivering throws
It’s pale glance o’er each warrior’s brows,
Catches each shape and look of death
Extended on the graves beneath.
How sudden rose each livid face
From forth the shadows of the place,
And, sudden sunk, was seen no more —
The vision with the blue glimpse o’er!
And often to his anxious view
Thus rose some form in death be knew:
One who had close beside him fought,
While Richard’s fiercest self he sought;
Some who had near his father been,
When in the throng he last was seen,
And when from battle he in vain
Had sought to join his band again.
VII.
On a low stone, lit up by ray
Of single torch, a body lay
In ringed mail; with umbered gleam
Full on the face red flashes stream.
Fitzharding paused awhile, and groaned,
Again his eye a comrade owned;
For whom high danger he had braved;
Whose life, that day, he once had saved.
His iron van-brace now could show
The very dint of sabre blow,
Aimed at the life he then preserved,
Alas! for speedy fate reserved.
VIII.
Where spread each graven brass, beyond,
Above, below, was death;
Above, scarce cold, a warrior’s hand,
A monk’s lay hid beneath,
That had for ages mouldered there,
Since he had left his cell of care.
Such brass-sealed grave showed sculpture rude
Of monk, in kneeling attitude.
There lay the brave Sir Robert Vere,
Whose words yet smote Fitzharding’s ear,
“Warwick breaks up the Barrier!”
With winged speed he urged his way,
Then plunged in thickest of the fray.
IX.
And here, among the loyal slain,
Behold! Sir Richard Fortescue;
There lay Sir William Chamberlain;
There, Sir Ralph Ferrers, brave and true;
With many a veteran knight and squire, |
Whose breast had flamed with patriot fire;
And humbler men, whose courage high
Had taught them for their prince to die.
Who now shall wait at the King’s gate,
For, here lies faithful Chanselar?
Who urge the steed to utmost speed,
For Henry Hawlin sleepeth here?
Of all the wide lands he has traced
Six feet for him remain;
Of all the minutes of his haste
Not one to tell his pain!
To other tongue he leaves to say
Tiding of Alban’s bloody fray;
To bear unto Queen Margaret’s ears
The crowded tale of woes and fears —
Pressed into hours the fate of years!
His course, his toilful bustle done,
Now lies he here — HIS INN IS WON.
X.
And who shall to the dais bring,
With marshalled state before the King,
And train OF HOUSEHOLD SQUIRES,
And BLAZE OF YEUL-CLOUGH FIRES,
The boar’s head, at that merry tide,
When royal halls are opened wide?
Not he so mute on yonder grave;
The King’s chief Sewer he; —
Never again his chaunted stave
Shall join the minstrelsy!
Never again his jocund eye
Shall glance where banners wave on high,
And where plumed knight and ladies bright
Are ranged around, in purple dight —
Knights, who no more in gallant state
Shall answer to the minstrel’s call;
Ladies, whom war and cruel fate
Have banished from the lighted hall.
XI.
But who is he, within the shade
Of Wulphstan’s ancient altar laid?
No funeral torch, with lurid glare,
Burns o’er the iron warrior there;
Nor watch-monk sits in piteous care.
But twilight rays from distant tomb
Just shape his outline through the gloom. —
Whence is the tremour Florence feels?
Why does Fitzharding grasp her arm,
Silent and shaking with alarm? —
He fears dread truth that bier conceals.
In vain he bends upon the face,
Yet seems his father’s form to trace.
He signed the monk, attendant still,
To hasten where yon glimmers lead,
For the lone torch, his fate to read.
Yet, while the monk obeyed his will,
He feared lest sudden lightning-glance
Might show his father’s countenance
Sunk ghastly in the helm and drear.
He turned him from such awful chance,
And dimly saw, beside the bier,
A form in silence resting near,
In other cares so wrapped was he,
He guessed not now of treachery.
XII.
“Oh! will these moments never fleet?
Yet for this slow monk must I wait?”
He made some hasty steps to meet
His lingering messenger of fate;
And seized the torch, with desperate hand,
And took again his fearful stand.
The
flame glanced o’er the golden crest;
And there the leopard stood confessed!
The face! — he turned him from the light,
Veiling his eyes from the dread sight,
To meet that altered look afraid.
Sudden, strong hands the torch invade,
And hold it forth upon the corpse.
He turned to see what stranger’s force
Had seized it. There, with bending head,
A form looked on the warrior dead;
And, as he viewed the corpse below,
The torch flashed full upon his brow,
And showed his quivering lip, his eye,
Fixed as by some dire phantasie.
Then, all his father’s look was known,
Reflecting terrors like his own
While that dead form he gazed upon,
And feared to find his slaughtered son!
The living voice beside him spoke!
The long-fixed spell at once was broke!
XIII.
But who may tell the feelings high
Rising from fear to ecstasy,
While sire and son each other pressed,
And each in other’s grasp was blessed.
Their joy was as the Morning’s smile,
With light of heaven upon its brow,
The sable wreaths of Night, the while,
Frowning upon the world below,
»
Till their dark host, in wide array,
Touched with the rising beams of day,
Rich tints of rose and gold display,
And form, as on the sun they wait.
The pomp and triumph of his state.
XIV.
Short triumph here. In cloud of woe
Faded joy’s high reflected glow —
At D’Arcy’s Earl was aimed the blow.
Fitzharding, quick as glance of light,
The poniard wrenched, with skilful might,
And laid its ruffian master low.
He, instant, knew the carle he viewed
Was one, who late his steps pursued,
And watched St. Scytha’s shrine.
Not with Fitzharding was his strife;
His aim was at Earl D’Arcy’s life;
But, led by knightly sign,
He traced the Baron on his way;
The gilded spur upon his heel
Did shrouded warrior reveal,
And marked him forth for prey.
But, when Fitzharding left his shade.
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 261