Of cushion, or of carpeting;
Such stately signs were given alone
To greet the Sovereign’s offering.
Last, for De Clifford offering came;
And when the herald called his name,
The Abbot, gazing on his bier.
Gave bitter offering of a tear!
And dignified the warrior’s grave,
With Virtue’s tribute to the brave!
Nearer the aged Father drew,
Where the chief mourners wait,
And sprinkled there the drops held due
To Somerset’s sad state.
These valued rites alike he paid
To Percy’s and De Clifford’s shade,
And then, with supplicating eye,
Stretched forth his hands upon the air,
As if he would a blessing sigh
On all the dead and living there.
XXXIII.
As sunk the service for the dead,
Deep sighs of grief and mournful dread,
Of pious gratitude and love,
In Florence’ gentle bosom strove;
While on his arm she bowed her head,
For whom her thankful tears were shed.
The Knights had watched the sad array.
Till now the rising beams of May
Paled even the torches’ yellow flame;
And on the vault high overhead,
And on the far perspective, came
A purer light, a softer shade,
Harmonious, and of deep repose,
Sweet as the Requiem’s dying close!
When, sudden, on this calm profound
The war-trump sent its brazen sound.
XXXIV.
Fiercely, though far without the wall,
They heard Duke Richard’s trumpet call
The morning-watch, at rising sun.
Then other startling sounds begun,
Voices and drums and trampling hoofs,
In preparation of their way
To London with the King this day.
And thus, while all beneath these roofs
Were hushed by hopes Religion lent,
The brazen shriek of War’s fell brood
Even to the sepulchre pursued
The victims she had thither sent.
Profaning, with a ruthless tongue,
The holy anthem scarcely sung.
XXXV.
Soon as the Requiem was said,
The Abbot sought the captive King;
To mourn with him his warriors dead,
And his last sorrowing farewell bring.
In contemplation deep, and grief,
Meek Henry watched alone,
Seeking his only sure relief
Before THE HIGHEST THRONE.
Soon as the Sire drew near, and told
Names of th’ unburied dead,
King Henry felt a withering cold
O’er all his senses spread: —
Scarce could he thank him for the rite
He had performed this dreadful night;
For pious courage, that pursued
And that the Victor had subdued,
So far as grant of sepulchre
For those, who thanks could ne’er prefer —
He would have said, — but utterance failed
To speak for those he now bewailed.
XXXVI,
Yet did he praise the fortitude
That Richard’s cruel claims withstood,
And held the rights of sanctuary
For friends o’ercome by misery.
Then for himself he thanked him last,
For hospitable duty past;
For sympathies of look and tone
While he had been a captive guest;
Such as the broken spirits own,
And treasure in the grateful breast.
He willed an Anniversary
Should of the fatal yesterday
Be held within this choir, for those,
Whose bodies here find just repose.
He had no treasures left to prove
How much this place deserved his love;
But with meek look he asked, and voice,
The Abbot would a gift receive,
His only gift — he had no choice —
The offering would his heart relieve —
Certain rich robes which once he wore,
Fit clothing these for him no more!
Haply such robes might now aspire
To Abbey-use; — he would desire
That, for his own sake, there should be
A day of Anniversary,
To mark the memory of a friend —
The day when his poor life should end.
XXXVII.
The Abbot bent; and bowed his head
To hide the tears that dimmed his eye
Faltered the words he would have said —
Of reverence, love, and grief — and fled
In deep convulsive sigh.
Oh! had he viewed in future time
The vision of that ghastly crime
(Pointing the pathway to the tomb)
Which marked the day of Henry’s doom,
His aged heart at once had failed,
And he had died, while he bewailed.
Henry one moment o’er him hung,
With look more eloquent than tongue —
Brief moment of emotion sweet!
Ere the King raised him from his feet:
But hark! in Abbey-court there rung
Flourish of trumpets, cheers of crowd,
Shrill steeds and drums all roaring loud.
XXXVIII.
The Abbot rose, but trembled, too;
Yet calm his look of ashy hue.
He sighed, but spoke not. Steps are heard;
A page and knight approach the King;
Message from Richard straight they bring,
That all things wait the royal word
For London; and the morning wore.
Faint smile of scorn the King’s face bore
At mockery of his princely will,
While captive he to Richard still.
But the meek Henry was not born
To feel, or give, the sting of scorn;
Soon did that smile in sadness fade.
Tinged soft with resignation’s shade —
The paleness of a weeping moon,
Which clouds and vapours rest upon.
XXXIX.
Again the trumpets bray; again
Ring iron steps, and shouts of men.
In armour cased, Duke Richard came;
Proudly his warlike form he held,
And looked the Spirit of the field,
Yet for King Henry’s royal name
Feigned reverence due. With gentle blame
For lingering thus, he urged him hence,
While mingled o’er his countenance
A milder feeling with his pride —
A pity he had fain denied —
As he that look of goodness viewed,
Beaming in dignity subdued.
XL.
Following his steps came knight and lord,
And filled the royal chamber broad;
Yet came not Warwick in the throng,
Smitten with consciousness of wrong.
There was in Henry’s meekened look
A silent but a deep rebuke,
That smote his heart, and almost drew
His vast ambition from its view.
But, when that look was seen no more,
The pang it caused too soon was o’er,
And rashly his career he held
‘Gainst him in council and in field;
And now was with the vanguard gone
To fix the triumph he had won.
XLI.
By the King’s side, mourning his fate,
The aged Abbot stept.
Through chamber, passage, hall, and gate,
Where stee
ds and squires and lancemen wait,
The Abbey’s pomp, the Warrior’s
Their full appointment kept.
When the last portal they had gained,
Close marshalled bands without were trained
Within, high state the Church maintained.
The Abbot paused, and from his brow
Dismissed the darker cloud of woe,
To bless his parting Lord;
With arms outstretched, and look serene,
Pity and reverence were seen
A farewell to afford.
And thus the hundred monks around
Bestowed their blessings on his head,
While none of all the crowd was found,
Rude foes, stern soldiers, marshalled,
That did not say, or seem to say,
“Blessings attend thee on thy way!”
XLII.
The farewell Benediction o’er,
Duke Richard willed such scene no more,
And instant signal made to part;
He scorned, yet feared, each trait of heart.
A smile, a tear, in Henry’s eye
Said more than words may e’er supply,
As from the portal slow he past
And turned a long look — and the last.
Loud blew the trumpets, as in scorn
Of those they left behind
Stretched pale upon these aisles forlorn;
Loud blew they in the wind.
The fierce yet melancholy call,
Which died around each sable pall,
Formed but the warrior’s wonted knell —
The solemn and the last farewell!
XLIII.
This fearful summons was the last
That shook the sainted Alban’s shrine;
While now the martial pageant past,
Arrayed in many a glittering line,
From his pale choir and frowning tower,
Sad witness of the battle hour.
And from that broad tower now was seen
Those bands of war, on May’s first green,
In gleaming pomp and long array
Winding by meads and woods away;
While Clement viewed them, who, with DREAD,
Had watched their fires on hill outspread;
Had seen their white tents, dawning slow
On yester-morning’s crimsoned brow;
And thought how soon his shrines might fall
Beneath this poorly-battled wall.
He heard their trumpets in the gale
Sink fainter; as they seemed to wail
That Quiet did o’er War prevail.
He heard the tramp of measured tread,
The clattering hoofs, that forward sped;
The numerous voice in sullen hum;
And, last and lone, the hollow drum,
Till far its deadened beat decayed,
And fell upon the listening ear
Soft as the drop through leafy shade,
Then trembled into very air.
How still the following pause and sweet,
While yet the air-pulse seemed to beat!
XLIV.
Thus passed the warlike vision by;
While Alban’s turrets, peering high
Upon the gold and purpled sky,
O’erlooked the way for many a mile,
And, touched with May-beams, seemed to smile,
— Smile on the flight of War’s sad care,
That left them to their sleep in air;
And left the monks of gentle deed,
To blessed thanks from those they speed —
Left the poor friend, who watched his lord
Wounded, unwitting of reward,
To see him to his home restored —
The saintly Abbot left to close
His gathered years in due repose —
The dead unto their honoured tombs;
To peace these aisle’s and transept’s glooms!
XLV.
When Florence to her home returned
The aged servant she had mourned
Received her at her gate;
And, pawing on the ground again,
Behold her steed, who prison-rein
Had snapped, and homeward fled amain,
And here did watchful wait;
And onward to his mistress went,
With playing pace and neck low bent.
Once more beneath her peaceful bower,
Oh! how may words her feelings tell,
While now she viewed St. Alban’s tower,
That, yesterday, even at this hour,
She watched beneath dark Terror’s power?
One other day had broke his spell!
XLVI.
Farewell! farewell! thou Norman Shade!
The waning Moon slants o’er thy head;
Thy humbler turrets, seen below,
Uplift the darkly-silvered brow,
And point where the broad transepts sweep,
Measuring thy grandeur; while they keep
In silent state thy watch of night,
Communing with each planet bright;
And sad and reverendly they stand
Beneath thy look of high command.
Oh! Shade of ages long gone past,
Though sunk their tumult like the blast,
Still steals its murmur on my ear;
And, once again, before mine eye,
The long-forgotten scenes sweep by;
Called from their trance, though hearsed in Time,
Bursting their shroud, thy forms appear,
With darkened step and front sublime,
Sadness, that weeps not — strength severe.
And still, in solemn ecstasy,
I hear afar thy Requiem die;
Voices harmonious through thy roofs aspire,
The high-souled organ breathes a seraph’s fire i
Peace be with all beneath thy presence laid:.
Peace and farewell! — farewell, thou Norman Shade
THE END
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
CONTENTS
SALISBURY PLAINS.
SHAKSPEARE’S CLIFF.
THE FISHERS.
IN THE NEW FOREST.
ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE GROUP CALLED THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS
A SECOND VIEW OF THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.
ON ASCENDING A HILL CROWNED WITH A CONVENT, NEAR BONN.
THE SNOW-FIEND.
AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK AT KNOLE.
SEA-VIEWS.
TO THE SWALLOW.
FOREST LAWNS.
ON THE RONDEAU
DECEMBER’S EVE,
DECEMBER’S EVE,
A SEA-VIEW.
HAYLEY’S LIFE OF COWPER.
WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
SONNET TO THE LARK.
ON READING THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES
AND! TOO WAS ONCE OF ARCADIA.
TO THE RIVER DOVE.
THE SEA-MEW.
TO THE WINDS
MOONLIGHT.
SMILES.
THE REED OF POESY.
EDWY.
SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY.
SALISBURY PLAINS.
STONEHENGE.
I.
WHOSE were the hands, that upheaved these stones
Standing, like spectres, under the moon,
Steadfast and solemn and strange and alone,
As raised by a Wizard — a king of bones!
And whose was the mind, that willed them reign,
The wonder of ages, simply sublime?
The purpose is lost in the midnight of time;
And shadowy guessings alone remain.
II.
Yet a tale is told of these vast plains,
Which thus the mysterious truth explains:
‘Tis set forth in a secret legend old,
Whose leaves none living did e’er unfold.
Quaint is the measure, and hard to follow,
Yet sometimes it flies, like the circling swallow.
III.
Near onto the western strand,
Lies a tract of sullen land,
Spreading ‘neath the setting light,
Spreading, miles and miles around,
Which for ages still has frowned:
Be the sun all wintry white,
Or glowing in his summer ray,
Comes he with morning smile so bright,
Or sinks in evening peace away,
Yet still that land shows no delight!
IV.
There no forest leaves are seen,
Yellow corn, nor meadow green,
Glancing casement, grey-mossed roof,
Rain and hail and tempest proof;
Nor, peering o’er that dreary ground,
Is spied along the horizon’s bound
The distant vane of village spire,
Nor far-off smoke from lone inn fire,
Where weary traveller might rest
With blazing hearth and brown ale blest,
Potent the long night to beguile,
While loud without raves the bleak wind;
No: his dark way he there must shivering find;
No signs of rest upon the wide waste smile.
V.
But the land lies in grievous sweep
Of hills not lofty, vales not deep.
Or endless plains where the traveller fears
No human voice shall reach his ears;
Where faintest peal of unknown bells
Never along the lone gale swells;
Till, folding his flock, some shepherd appear,
And Salisbury steeple it’s crest uprear;
But that’s o’er miles yet many to tell,
O’er many a hollow, many a swell;
And that shepherd sees it, now here now there,
Like a Will o’-the wisp in the evening air,
As his way winds over each hill and dell,
Where once the ban of the Wizard fell!
VI.
Would you know why this country so desolate lies?
Why no sound but the tempest’s is heard, as it flies,
Or the croak of the raven, or bustard’s cries?
Why the corn does not spring nor a cottage rise?
Why no village-Church is here to raise
The blest hymn of humble heart-felt praise,
Nor ring for the passing soul a knell,
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 263