Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated)

by Ann Radcliffe

  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,