Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III ::

Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III

Keeping festival in Ardenne, a romance. St. Alban's Abbey, a metrical tale; With some poetical pieces. By Anne Radcliffe ... To which is prefixed: A memoir of the author, with extracts from her journals. In four volumes

Radcliffe, Ann Ward (1764-1823)

VOL. I.

GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE.

THE BRIDAL.

[O'er the high western wolds afar]

III,IV.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

II.

CANTO II. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FIRST BATTLE.

III.

CANTO III. THE DAY OF THE FIRST BATTLE.

IV.

CANTO IV. THE HOUR AFTER THE BATTLE.

CANTO V. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

VI.

CANTO VI. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

VII.

CANTO VII. SCENE IN THE MONASTERY.

VIII.

CANTO VIII. SOLEMN WATCH WITHIN THE ABBEY.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

IX.

CANTO IX. AMONG THE DEAD.

CANTO X. AMONG THE DEAD.

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.

THE SNOW-FIEND.

AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK, AT KNOLE.

SEA-VIEWS.

TO THE SWALLOW.

FOREST LAWNS.

ON THE RONDEAU, “JUST LIKE LOVE IS YONDER ROSE.”

DECEMBER'S EVE, ABROAD.

DECEMBER'S EVE, AT HOME.

A SEA-VIEW.

ON HAYLEY'S LIFE OF COWPER.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

SONNET TO THE LARK.

ON READING THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES, WRITTEN BY THE LATE LADY ELIZABETH LEE, SISTER OF EARL HARCOURT,

PART I. THE HAZEL TREE.

II.

PART II. THE FAIRIE COURT.

III.

PART III. THE MAGIC MIRRORS.

SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY.

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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,
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 he 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,
Hastening to render Florence aid,
The cowl fell back, that veiled his face,
And his pursuer stayed his pace,
Till, guided by strange sounds of joy,
He came the father to destroy.

XV.

Short time had Florence to revive
From terror and dismay,
Support from tenderness derive,
Or tender tear repay;
Short time for speech had sire and son,
Ere the good monk, her guide, came on.
He warmly urged their instant flight;
For comrades of the fallen were nigh,—
Monks, too, who shelter would deny
When they might view this dismal sight.
He would a hidden passage show,
To serve as screen from menaced woe;
Till day should send Duke Richard hence,
His march for London to commence,
And all his myrmidons of war,
Guarding their captive King afar.

XVI.

Briefly the Knights their thanks repaid;
And looked on him, who bore their crest,
All lifeless on the marble laid,—
Briefly for him their grief expressed:
“Richard Fitzharding—kinsman dear!
On thee will fall the future tear,
When thought may pause upon thy bier!”
Swift on the southern aisle they went
By many a dim-seen monument;
And reached a little shaded door
That led the great west entrance o'er;
Where gallery, that ran between
The crowning battlement, unseen,
Received them in its silent space.
Well knew the Earl this lonely place,
For, even here, at curfew hour,
He refuge sought from Richard's power;
And here remained, till he in vain
Searched for his son among the slain.

XVII.

Oh! if by care and grief are told
The unseen steps of Time;

How many hours—nay days—had rolled,
Since, lingering in this secret hold,
He heard that curfew chime!
Since, on the northern gallery
His restless steps had strayed,
Where he had viewed, unconsciously,
His son in monkish shade,
Who there the vision of his face
Amid the shadows seemed to trace.
Now joy told forth the time so fast,
The present moment was the past,
Ere yet he marked it glide along,
Stealing the tale upon his tongue.
Full many an hour had D'Arcy passed,
Since o'er the Norman Shade
He marked the sun its low beam cast,
And glow with angry red;
Since he had heard St. Alban's knell
Sound what had seemed his son's farewell;
Since from safe nook he turned away,
To seek, where death and danger lay.

XVIII.

Ere now withdrew the monk, their guide,
He bade the warriors here abide
Till morning hour, when they might hear
Drums and the neigh of steeds draw near.
Then, soon as Richard's hosts were gone,
He would return, and lead their way
To chamber, where the Abbot lay.
While grateful words the Knights repay,
Florence could only with a tear
Thank the good priest for service dear.
Time had not yet been lent to tell
The acts, on which she fain would dwell:
The kindness, that restored her life
From grief and horror's mingled strife.
Meekly he bowed his aged head,
And then on soundless foot he sped.
They heard him bar the gallery-door,
And soon, upon the paved floor,
Watched his dark shadow pass away,
Where the high-tombed warriors lay.

XIX.

And now Fitzharding pressed to hear
From Florence all her tale of fear.
She told her sorrows, from the hour
When first she watched St. Alban's tower;
Of her dark path of dread and grief
Through forest shade; of pilgrim train,
And words exchanged; of wounded chief,
She feared had been Fitzharding slain.
Told of her courser's sudden flight
Through ruffian-troops fresh from the fight,
His strength, his courage and his speed,
His dexterous course at utmost need;
Till, at St. Alban's warded gate,
Though courage, skill, nor strength abate,
They seized him as a prize of war,
And Florence for their prisoner.
But, ere they led her to close ward,
Her proffered gold to one on guard
Aided her through the barrier,
(Enfolded in her pilgrim-shroud)
Among an anxious, hurrying crowd,

Seeking their friends within the town.
Words might not tell what she had known,
While, by the dying and the dead,
She passed to gain this Abbey's shade;
Nor, when she sunk, beside the bier
Of warrior, laid in chamber near.

XX.

'Twere vain to tell Fitzharding's pain,
While listening to the fearful strain;
How oft he shuddered, oft reproved,
And blamed her most, when most he loved,
For courage rash, for passage won,
And high exploits for his sake done.
Scarce might the Earl his wonder speak,
That one so gentle and so weak
The meed of heroes thus might claim:
But greater fear the less o'ercame.
Then Sire and Son to other tell
What each in yester fight befell;
Of nobles slain, and friends that failed
At utmost need, though horsed and mailed.

But chief their indignation rose
'Gainst Wentworth—traitor to his king,
Whose standard basely did he fling
To ground, and fled before his foes!

XXI.

Earl D'Arcy then the story told
Of many a fugitive he met,
Wounded and lorn, both young and old,
Seeking a home ere sun was set.
In a close wood near Alban's town,
Laid in a wretched cart, alone,
Sore wounded Dorset, he, with pain,
Saw journeying to his domain—
Him must he never see again!
Stafford's brave Earl on litter borne,
Whose hand by fatal shaft was torn,
Already on his look was laid
Approaching Death's first warning shade.
His gallant father, too, was near,
Who to his tomb the scar would bear
Received this day for Lancaster;
Through vizor closed the arrow sped,
That sent him from his steed as dead,

And nearly had the life-blood quaffed:
Yet fatal was not deemed the shaft.
Ah! deeply must the shaft of sorrow
Strike to his heart, when, on the morrow,
He o'er his only son shall stand,
And feel the death-dew on his hand!

XXII.

As this sad image rose to view,
Earl D'Arcy, as in sympathy,
Gazed on his son, whose living hue
Awoke his grateful fervency.
A silent tear stood in his eye,
As passed his offered thanks on high.
Well read the son his father's care;
Rejoiced he in those thanks to share.
But hark! a low and measured chime
Speaks from the tower the Watch of Prime,
Sounding due summons to the knights
For some high pomp of funeral rites.
O'er that west gallery might they bend
And trace nave, choir, from end to end.
The lofty vista, crowned with shade,
On pillars vast was reared,

Where pointed arch, in far arcade,
Mixed with rude Saxon was displayed,
And double tiers above arrayed,
By superstition feared.
Broad rose the Norman arch on high,
That propped the central tower,
And forward led the wondering eye
O'er the choir roof's bright canopy,
To the east window's bower.

XXIII.

How solemn swept before their sight
This Abbey's inner gloom,
Thwarted with gleams of streaming light
And shade from pier and tomb,
Flung by lone torch, or by the ray
Of tapers, sickening at the day.
For now, the thunder-clouds o'erpast,
May's crystal morn its dawning cast
On every window's untraced pane,
And touched it with a cold, blue stain.
How peaceful dawned that living light
O'er eyes for ever set in night!

O'er eyes, that, but on yesterday,
Viewed distant years in long array,
And lovely gleams of shaded joy
Upon their evening landscape lie.

XXIV.

In solemn thought, while Sire and Son
Beheld the fate of friends below,
Their hearts a various feeling own,
That, saved from every mortal blow,
For them another morning rose,
And brought their wearied limbs repose!
Then Pity shed a tender tear
For many a warrior sleeping here.
And thus, at the first dawn of day,
Their duteous orisons they pay.
The grateful thoughts ascend on high,
Like May's first offerings, to the sky,
That sweet and still and full arise
'Mid silent dews and peaceful sighs;
Even as the glad lark's soaring trill,
Heard, when the thunder's voice is still,
Rejoicing in the breath of May:—
But, oh! that sweet and jocund lay

Now yields to other sounds, and dread—
To bell that mourns the slaughtered dead!

XXV.

But see! a sudden radiance streams
From Alban's choir and shrined tomb;
The sable veil withdrawn, the beams,
Just kindling, break upon the gloom,
From torch and taper lifted there,
'Mid burnished gold and image fair.
While through the choir the shrine-lights spread,
Gleamed each tall column's branching head,
Circled with golden blazonry—
The shielded arms of abbots dead.
These shields, so small and close, like gems
Enclasped the columns' clustered stems,
That rose in the ribbed arch on high,
And spread, in fan-like tracery,
Upon the choir's long canopy;
Where visioned angels shed their light
Upon a vault of mimic night.

XXVI.

And now the long perspective line
Extending through those arches three,

Of stately grace, above the shrine,
St. Mary's Chapel they might see,
Distinct, yet stealing from the sight;
And high, beyond the altar there,
Her image, shrined in flowers fair,
Lessened afar in softer light,
While, miniatured, before it glide
Her priests, who chaunt at morning-tide.
Again that bell, with solemn tongue,
Through vault and aisle and gallery rung;
Till distant voices, drawing near,
Fell, deeply murmuring, on the ear.
This was the Requiem-mass of Prime,
The Requiem, sung with honours due,
Of torch and incense, dirge and chime,
When the whole convent, two and two,
And the Lord Abbot stately led,
In flowing vest, with mitred head—
'Twas the full mass for princes said,
When they repose among the dead.

XXVII.

'Twas then the aged Abbot came,
Obedient to the Monarch's claim.

Beneath the cloister's westward arch,
By the great porch, he held his march,
With all the officers of state,
That on the Abbey's greatness wait.
Of humbler servants twenty-one,
Bearing before him each a torch,
Light the high-sweeping Norman porch
With dusky glare, like setting sun,
When yester battle-day was done.
Then paced his monks in double row,
Bearing their hundred tapers, slow,
That beamed upon each bannered saint
And pageant blazoned high and quaint.
The Abbot came with ready zeal,
Though called from short and needful rest,
And with pale age and grief oppressed,
To give the Requiem's solemn seal
And passport to a quiet grave;
And weep the tear due to the brave.

XXVIII.

A tear! does Glory claim a tear?
Weeps he upon a Hero's bier?

The maid, as in the tomb she fades;
The youth, once 'tranced in Fancy's shades;
The wedded pair, whose hearts are one,
Who lived each other's world alone;
The infant, that had smiled so fair,
Like cherub, on its mother's care;
The long-loved parent, sinking slow
Beneath the weight of winter's snow—
O'er these, when in the grave they lie,
May fall the tears from Pity's eye;
But o'er the warrior's tomb should glance
The lightning of a poet's trance.
Cold was the reverend Father's mind,
By wisdom, or by age, refined
To simple truth, that scorns the prize,
For which the bard, the hero, dies—
A shade, a sound, a pageant gay,
A morning cloud of golden May,
Glorious with beams of orient hue,
That, while they flatter—melt it too!
And, for such airy charm, he gives
The real world, in which he lives;

And, gazing on the lofty show,
Sinks in the closing tomb below!—
And therefore fell the Abbot's tear
O'er Glory and a Hero's bier.

XXIX.

While these last rites, from Pity due,
The Abbot gave, you still might view
In his raised eye, the noble mind
That suffered much, yet shone resigned:—
Calm and unbreathing was his look,
As though of all, save soul, forsook;
And all his form and air conveyed
The aspect of some peaceful shade,
Contented tenant of a cell,
Who long had bade the world farewell.
Still, as he moved, the verse was sung
For crowds of dead they passed among;
And still the gliding tapers threw
A fleeting, gloomy, livid hue
On every face, on every grave,
Ranged on each side the long wide nave.

Though slaughtered men his pathway bound,
He shrunk not from this dreadful ground.

XXX.

Now, where around dead Somerset
High pomp of funeral-watch was met,
Where o'er his corpse twelve torches blazed,
Circle of light, by almsmen raised,
And choristers beyond attend;
There, slow the Abbey-train ascend,
And, ranged in triple crescent-rows,
Step above step, the fathers bend,
While requiem and blessed repose
Are sung, with long-resounding breath,
For all in battle slain, beneath.
How high and full the organs swell,
And roll along the distant aisle,
Till, dying on the ear, they fell,
And every earthly thought beguile.
While finely stole the softened strain,
And stately moved the solemn march,
The Knights and Florence view with pain
The scene beneath the Norman arch.

Soon as the chaunted hymn was o'er,
Portcullis, on the steps before,
Cried out with lofty voice of dole,
“Say for the soul—say for the soul
Of Somerset, high duke and prince,
And for each soul departed since
The onset of the battle-fray,
The wonted Requiem:—sing and say!”

XXXI.

It was an awful thrilling sight,
Beneath this Abbey's far-drawn flight,
To view her dark-robed sons arranged,
In memory of those thus changed,
Now seen in death laid out below,
Even while the Requiem's tender woe
Did for each parted spirit flow.
And first was seen a mourner pace,
His mantle borne with stately grace,
His eyes veiled in his hood,
Bearing the princely offering
Of Henry, his sad lord and king,
Where high the Abbot stood—

The sword of Somerset he bore:
A herald stalked, with casque, before.
He stopped below the Abbot's feet,
With low-bowed head and gesture meet.
Each pious gift the Father took
With meekest grace and downward eye;
And gave it to his Prior nigh,
Who held it, with a reverend look,
At the bier's head on high.

XXXII.

A second mourner pacing grave,
Attended by a herald-band,
For the mass-penny offering gave
An offering for Northumberland.
No pomp appeared, when he bent down,
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 steeds 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!
Peace be with all beneath thy presence laid:
Peace and farewell!—farewell, thou Norman Shade!

Richard Chanselar, porter to Henry VI.

Henry Hawlin, a messenger of “our lady, Dame Margarett.”

University of Virginia Library

CANTO X. AMONG THE DEAD.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.

XX.

XXI.

XXII.

XXIII.

XXIV.

XXV.

XXVI.

XXVII.

XXVIII.

XXIX.

XXX.

XXXI.

XXXII.

XXXIII.

XXXIV.

XXXV.

XXXVI.

XXXVII.

XXXVIII.

XXXIX.

XL.

XLI.

XLII.

XLIII.

XLIV.

XLV.

XLVI.