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 |
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| III. | CANTO III. THE DAY OF THE FIRST BATTLE. |
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
153
CANTO III. THE DAY OF THE FIRST BATTLE.
I.
The day had risen; the song of PrimeSwelled soft, as ceased the second chime;
When now was heard a distant drum
Through the wood-lands high to come;
And, fierce though faint, one trumpet-blast
Hurrying upon the light wind passed.
It was not fancy—'twas not fear,
That caused those glittering helms appear,
And triple-glance of marshalled spear,
Upon the high wood's shadowy side;
'Tis there the barbed coursers ride;
154
The battle-axe and lance and bow;
And banners bright and pennons fair
Bicker upon the fretful air.
Now, down St. Stephen's woody steep,
The warlike bands due order keep,
Winding in glimpses to his eye
Who watched from under hood, on high,
And sadly lost all doubt, in fear;
While now the 'larum-bell he rung,
And now o'er battlement he hung,
Viewing the lengthened train draw near;
“Ten thousand,—less there could not be;
Ten thousand of the enemy;”
And thousands yet he might not see!
II.
His glad companion smiling heardThe panic marvels of his word;
But all in vain he promised good,
Though, as they flashed from Julian's wood,
The knight well knew those armed bands,
And brandished high his gauntlet-hands,
155
“Live—live King Henry—Henry hail!”
And waved his banner on the wall,
Urging the loud, rejoicing call,
“Live—live King Henry—Henry hail!”
Till his parched lips and utterance fail.
III.
And then was heard the various paceOf young and old, in toilsome race
Up galleried wall and winding flight,
Aiming to reach this topmost height.
But soon th' embattled roofs below
Proclaim, that few may gain this brow;
For, resting there in sable row,
Many a brother breathless stood
With pointing hand and falling hood,
Gazing upon the vision dread
Of warlike force, that hither sped.
IV.
Now, loud King Henry's clarions sound,The many-trampling hoofs rebound,
As, issuing from St. Stephen's shade
Upon the near and sunny glade,
156
While light the red-rose banners stream;
And knights on barbed coursers bear
Their monarch's standard through the air.
And gentle Henry might you know,
Though harnessed close from top to toe.
Before him, herald-trumpets sound,
Proud chiefs and nobles press the ground;
And, where his ordered thousands throng,
Winding the woods and vale along,
Each bannered knight, as he drew nigh,
Was seen to lead his vassal-band,
With statelier march and aspect high,
Expressive of supreme command,
Though courting kindly gesture from his Sovereign's hand.
V.
Loud and more loud the trumpets call,As they draw nigh St. Alban's wall;
And other trumpets answer clear,
And “Live King Henry!” rends the air
From every guarded barrier.
157
The thronging shield and helmet go,
While busy knights their men array,
To line their Monarch's onward way,
The van-guard, that, on yesternight,
Watched here, upon St. Alban's height.
Above, each roof and lattice showed
A fearful and a curious crowd,
Though forced within their homes to stay,
Hoping for glorious wonders, on that day.
VI.
And now adown the street appear,With better banners, high on air,
The Martyr's sons in wondering fear,
With chaunted anthems, grave and sweet,
Pacing their Sovereign lord to meet.
The Abbot is not now arrayed,
As he was wont, to meet his lord;
His brow no jewelled pomp displayed,
Nor from his shoulders now floats broad
The scarlet cope, nor robe of gold,
Nor the rich velvet's shadowy fold.
158
Suiting his habit to the time,
In sorrowing penance seems to plead
Forgiveness for some hidden crime,
That threatened to draw judgment down
Even on St. Alban's shrine and town.
But pages hold his mourning train,
As when arrayed in robe more vain,
And all his officers of state
In order due around him wait;
While, marching on the crowded way,
His Abbey-knights their band display.
VII.
Far down the steep of Holywell,The chaunted anthem rose and fell.
Soon as was heard the solemn song,
And seen the dark advancing throng;
That busy street, then closely pressed,
With bow and pike and demi-lance,
Where charger reared, where waved high crest,
Was hushed, at once, as if in trance;
The crowd fell back, in order grave,
Ere Abbot's guard the signal gave,
159
In reverend row you there might see
Each warrior on his bended knee,
With upward and beseeching eye.
And thus, through files of lance and spear,
The pious fathers, without fear,
On to the southern barrier move
Safe in due reverence and love.
VIII.
And now within the barrier wallSt. Alban's sons await their King.
And hark! what nearer clarions ring!
What shouts around each turret call
“King Henry live!—King Henry live!
Every Saint a blessing give;
King Henry live!—King Henry live!
Abbot and Prior blessings give.”
Then burst the loud, acclaiming voice
From battlements and towers aloof,
From cottage-thatch and lordly roof,
Of all, who in due rule rejoice.
160
IX.
Then, first from forth the barrier-archDeep and dark, in solemn march,
The Herald-trumpets come;
Their blazoned coats and pageantry
And banners beam upon the eye,
Like sudden blaze of witchery
From depth of midnight gloom.
Behind, a pale and gleaming band,
As if by glance of moonlight shown,
Stalked, in silence, hand by hand,
With threatening crest and visor's frown;
The stately forms of men unknown,
In cold dead steel anatomized,
As in Death's very image 'guised.
X.
Following this heavy march were seen,On the armed charger's stately sheen,
Many a Baron's youthful son,
By lofty Somerset led on.
With stately step his courser trod;
His casque the British lion strode;
The triple plume was nodding by;
161
The warrior's dark and fiery eye,
Though not the mien his visage bore.
Proud was his air, his stature high.
Above his ringed mail he wore
Coat-armour, blazoned bright with sign
Of princely birth and Henry's line,
And 'broidered with devices fair;
Portcullis-bars in gold were there.
Two Squires, beside his stirrups, bear
His shield and axe and new-shod spear.
There marched in stately grace before,
With trumpets that high summons gave,
His Poursuivant, Portcullis grave,
And Henchmen next, some demi-score.
Fearless, he sought the battle-hour;
Here he beheld not castle-tower,
And well he knew the prophecy,
That under Castle he must die.
XI.
Behind, as far as eye might go,Paced barbed steeds and banners slow,
Till Henry's standard stooped below
162
By royal Banner Knights a throng;
So heavy was the ample fold,
That hardly could the knights unfold
The crimson silk and blazoned gold.
Again came Heralds, four abreast,
With blazoned arms and yellow vest,
Sounding their silver trumpets sweet,
While silver drums before them beat.
Followed a gorgeous stately train,
Who scarcely might their coursers rein,
Esquires and Yeomen, two and two,
Accoutred at all points, most true;
Knights of the Body, brave and gay,
Who ushered Henry on his way,
While 'compassing, on all sides, came
Chiefs and Nobles, high in fame.
XII.
Thronged lofty spears and shields around,Where the King's charger trod the ground,
And, deep behind the barrier-arch,
Plume behind plume, in solemn march,
163
Upon their monarch's progress wait.
“Then gentle Henry might you know,
Though harnessed close from head to toe;”
For, though arrayed for warrior-deed,
He sat not cheerly on his steed;
Though England's lion on his brow
Claimed homage of a Nation's bow.
XIII.
Soon as St. Alban's sons he spiedHe drew his rein, and “Halt!” was cried;
And when the reverend father kneeled,
He pressed his iron beaver down,
And would not let his visor frown,
But all his countenance revealed,
And stretched his gracious hand to raise
The aged man with gentle praise.
And when the blessed anthems pealed,
He would himself have stept to ground,
And with the Abbot, side by side,
Have yielded up all kingly pride,
To pace the Martyr's tomb around.
164
And instant close beside him strode,
And whisper'd somewhat to his ear;
Which Henry, faltering, seem'd to hear,
And slow and silently obey.
Yet, though his stately seat he kept,
He bade the father lead the way;
And patient, as they stept, he stept,
Listening to their slow chaunted lay,
With due respect and bended head,
While toward the Abbey-gate they led.
XIV.
On as that martial pageant drew,The Knight on watch would point to view,
Each banner and each chief he knew.
“There rides the high Northumberland,
Leading his hardy northern band,
The son of Hotspur, whose bold hand
So oft the prize of victory won.
There pass the Cliffords, sire and son;
And more of truly noble fire
Ne'er glowed than in the hoary sire!
165
And fiery Tudor, still the same.
Sir John de Grooby you may see,
With new-worn honours vain and brave;
Just knighted by King Henry he,
O may he 'scape an early grave!
Whate'er his fate, he cares not now;
The plume exults upon his brow.”
XV.
Now Clement flies right speedily,And, mounting on a turret-way,
Through narrow loop begins to spy,
The varying struggle of that day;
For, figured underneath his eye,
While fearless he of spear and dart,
Lay street and road, as on a chart.
Close looked this Saxon turret down
Upon the four ways of the town,
And on Queen Ellen's shrine and green,
(The garden-plat alone between)
And, broad and straight, the way then spread
To old St. Peter's towered head;
166
His battlements were drawn on air.
XVI.
Below, the roads, and streets, and green,So crowded were with shield and pike,
That scarcely was there room between
For lance to poise, or sword to strike;
But the chief turmoil of the scene
Was on St. Peter's spacious way,
Where, in the centre of the green,
King Henry and his knights were seen,
Around his banner floating gay.
'Twas planted for the battle-hour,
With the full pomp of warlike power;
'Mid clarion's and trumpet's sound,
And shouts, that rent the air far round,
Making old Alban's shrines to shake,
And tremble deep her crystal lake.
On Peter's street that standard stood,
Summoning hill and vale and wood.
While the King's orders went, to keep
The wards and barriers of the place
167
York now advanced, in quickened pace.—
XVII.
Advanced so fast, that, when the KingOne moment at the shrine would spend,
His chiefs arranged themselves in ring
Around, and urged him to suspend
His pious purpose, till that day
Were ended, and that battle-fray.
Meek Henry yielded with a sigh,
And something like a frown
Came darkening o'er his tearful eye;
But soon, with patient look on high,
It died in smile of piety,
Such as blest saint might own.
Then, turned he to the humble door
Of Edmund Westby, th' Hundredor;
There his head-quarters were prepared
By those, who with him more than shared
His power; there he resolved to wait
Whate'er might be the battle's fate,
Or welcome peace, or lengthened hate.
168
XVIII.
In terror from the turret-arch,Was now seen Richard's rapid march,
And signal given and 'larum call,
Rang round about the Abbey wall.
Now all are up on gallery-tower,
To scan the enemy's dread power
O'er the wide fields advancing round
From meadow-slopes, where woods had been,
But now no sign of oak is seen;
Archers and pikemen step the ground;
And down the glade, that spreads below,
Arrayed in many a gleaming row,
They stand beneath St. Alban's brow.
But chiefly on the eastern side
Key's Field displayed their bannered pride.
There most St. Alban's feared their blow;
St. Alban's—ill prepared for war,
Though thronged with arms and warriors bold;
For no broad bulwark seen afar,
Nor stretching rampart, proudly told
Defiance and a mighty hold;
169
Warded for old St. Alban's fate.
XIX.
Wide o'er the northern fields afarStill marched Duke Richard's lines of war,
Whose white-rose banners, gathering nigh,
Gave silent signal to the eye
Of more than he had dared to claim—
Richard of York's yet secret aim.
White blossoms in each cap were seen,
For unblown rose, the sweet may-thorn,
From banks of freshly-blushing green
By gauntlet-fingers rudely torn,
And placed on high, a smiling crest,
O'er brows by iron vizor pressed;
Device, at once, for the pale rose,
And for the name that gave him sway,
Who gaily on his warrior-brows
Bore the bright bloom Plant-a-genèt.
XX.
The warders scanned the outspread forceFrom tower and turret still in vain;
170
To shrouding woods extends his train:
And who may guess what numbers there
In silence wait and watchful care,
Ready the battle to sustain?
To inexperienced eyes, and fear,
His hundreds, thousands thus appear,
Now lost and seen in grove and field;
While Henry's thousands cooped in street,
Seem but to threaten self-defeat,
Incapable their strength to wield.
XXI.
Morning on day had far advanced,And not a spear in onset glanced;
But lingering messages were sent
To Lancaster by York, the while,
Who, trusting less in arms than guile,
By aid of gold was still intent
Some captains of his foe to gain;
His numbers might, he judged, be vain,
Though the great Warwick ruled their course,
To grapple Henry's loyal force.
171
XXII.
Unawed by sense of treachery,Richard now dared, irreverently,
To call on Alban, as his saint,
To hear him vouch his true intent—
“In verie knowledge of his trothe
To witness to his loyal oath,
To honour Henry as his king,
Should he to instant justice bring
Those false suggesters of his will,
Who wrought his kingdom only ill.”
Yet Henry's oath he would not take,
That speedy justice should awake;
But, on the moment, made his claim
That every noble he might name
Should to his camp in fetters come,
And there receive their final doom:
This done, he would disperse his men.
And bow to Henry's power again.
But well he guessed such claim would wring
Only defiance from the King.
172
XXIII.
And this was Lancaster's reply,That rather than to him betray
His faithful servants, he, this day,
Would for their sakes, fight—live or die!
And, though long pressed by “great disease”
And heaviness of heart,
He swore by sainted Edward's peace,
He would not thence depart
Till every traitor of that hour,
Who should persist in strife,
If placed by battle in his power,
Should forfeit there his life.
This while the virtuous Henry said,
A tear of anxious grief he shed.
XXIV.
The morn was gone, noon nearly come,Yet was not heard the 'larum-drum;
Still Richard held a double course,
And Henry still restrained his force.
Now, while full many a fearful eye
From Alban's tower looked eagerly,
173
They marked again, in street below,
A white-rose Herald blindfold led,
Where high the bannered rose of red
Waved duteous o'er the monarch's brow.
King Henry, ever duly slow
To draw the desolating sword,
Piteous and mindful of the woe,
That might ensue from slighted word,
Greeted the wily parl once more,
And long the message pondered o'er;
For show of hope and peace it bore.
XXV.
And now a guileful sound of peaceSwells faint to those, who watch on high,
Bidding their care and terror cease.
But wherefore, to their straining eye,
Yon shifting glance of helm and lance?
And why those sudden trumpet-sounds,
Mingled with tremour of the drum,
Gathering in loud and louder rounds,
Like burst of gaunt and ravenous hounds?
174
Raising the treacherous onset-call,
While yet for peace their Herald treats
And “Peace!” is shouted through the streets.
And now St. Alban's monks descry
A shower of arrows falling nigh
To Key's Field, o'er that barrier-lane,
Where the besiegers strive in vain
To burst into the guarded town;
While doubling and redoubling come
The trumpet's shriek and roll of drum,
And shouts that rage and havock own.
XXVI.
In street below raged to and fro,In wild disorder, men-at-arms;
And heralds sounding loud alarms;
And knights, close braced from head to toe,
Uncertain where to meet the foe;
Whom, though they heard, they might not see
For houses and for orchard-tree,
Till signal from St. Alban's tower
Pointed where pressed the threatening power.
175
In order ranged each 'wildered band.
The noblest and the bravest stood
By the East barrier, near the wood,
That led to Sopewell's Priory,
Where watched, in sad consistory,
That fair and trembling sisterhood;
For thence the loudest turmoil came.
But noble chiefs and knights of fame
Crowded St. Peter's high broad way,
Where their liege-lord, King Henry, lay.
XXVII.
And soon from other quarters blewClarion and trump without the walls;
But even on tower they had scant view
Of those whose 'larum thus appals.
Those sounds called every foot to climb
To battlement and tower sublime.
Then not a brother stayed below,
Whom age did not forbid to go;
Or who around the shrine kept ward;
176
Saying long Obits in the gloom,
Pale with expectance of his doom;
While, listening to dread sounds abroad,
His station in the aisle denied
To view the course of battle-tide:
And oft the blast in turret nigh
Mocked his impatience with it's sigh,
As if some whispering friend drew near
To share with him his half-told fear.
XXVIII.
Fiercer and fiercer rose the bray,Till, every shrine (save Alban's) left,
The chantry of it's priest bereft,
The silent dead forsaken lay.
Even he, who, worn with last night's watch,
Would fain some little slumber snatch,
Now startled by the trumpet's breath,
Calling as with the voice of death,
Uprose and sought the turret grey,
That eastward o'er the Chancel lay.
The strength of battle pressed that way.
177
O'er the great window of the Shrine,
Forming a canopy most fair
For the carved cell and image fine,
That knelt with upward aspect there—
St. Clement, in his fretted cove,
The namesake of the Monk above.
This 'battled summit seemed his crown,
Who had for ages knelt thereon,
Seeming to feel with those below,
Whose choral voices, murmuring slow
Round those sad mansions of the dead,
Would strive a saintly peace to shed.
XXIX.
While Clement thus his fears obeyed,And sought this barbican so high—
This raven's nest so near the sky—
More awful rose the battle cry;
Steel clashed, and trump and clarion brayed.
It seemed as though the deafening sound
Rose straight below on Abbey-ground;
But distant was the place of war,
Beyond the Eastern barrier,
178
O'er many a high and crowded roof;
For thwart the Abbey stretched the way
Of Holywell, and screened the fray.
Yet was Duke Richard's farther host
In spreading shock of battle traced,
By the near, unseen, impulse tossed,
Like circles from a centre chaced.
XXX.
And o'er this swaying of the storm,Incessant hissed the viewless form
Of arrows, shadowing the air,
Or lightning glance of hurled spear;
While keen, below, the restless rays
Of shield and casque and corslet blaze;
And Key's Field broad displayed the course
Of Richard's and of Warwick's force.
Neville of Salisbury fought near,
Unseen, close at the barrier;
But firm-set pike and arrowy shower
Failed to make passage for his power;
For aged Clifford stemmed his way,
And scattering, as he went, dismay,
179
And every hand that held a sword.
XXXI.
But whence the shouts so thrilling now?Why do the townsmen, on each roof,
Rise earnestly, even on the toe,
And rashly hurry to and fro,
As if on level ground they go,
And mount the chimney-tops aloof,
And bend far o'er the depth below?
Those ridgy roofs and chimneys tall,
Crowded with heads, like leaves on tree,
From Clement's anxious gaze hid all
He climbed this lofty perch to see.
But soon the arrows fell so near,
The gazers shrunk below with fear,
And left each summit-station clear;
He then, in safe and shrouded nook,
Upon the place of war could look.
XXXII.
There yet a narrow Green is shown,That eastward runs behind the town—
180
Small part of the broad space, that went
By name of Key's Field; close it bent
To Sopewell lane. The barrier nigh
Did long the enemy defy.
The princely Somerset fought here;
And, had his spirit e'er known fear,
That fear it would not now have owned,
For here no fateful castle frowned;
And well he knew the prophecy,
“That under castle he must die.”
While the stress lay round that barrier,
(Clifford within and York without)
So often swerved th' assailing rout,
That Richard's overthrow seemed near;
But who 'gainst secret aid is sure?
What force 'gainst treachery may endure?
XXXIII.
O'er beds of peaceful flowers he came,The Knight who flew to Richard's need,
With helm and shield on barbed steed;
Onward he pressed, at utmost speed,
181
Knights and spearmen fast succeed.
On full six hundred helms appeared
His badge in gold or silver wrought—
A rampant bear, with staff uprear'd,
And this the boastful tale it told—
“He wins whom I uphold!”
Fierce was the trumpet's blast—the war-cry burst;
“A Warwick! a Warwick! Warwick is here!”
In Holywell road he was the first
Where valiant De Clifford kept barrier.
Though grey his locks in his cap of steel,
Yet a hero's fire glowed in his eye;
His spirit glowed for his country's weal;
“In Henry's cause may I live or die!”
XXXIV.
“My Lord De Clifford, Warwick's foe!Warwick calls on you now to show,
Why meet'st thou not the RAGGED STAFF?
The Bear would fain thy life-blood quaff.
Hast thou forgot thy daring taunt,
That thou through life my steps would'st haunt?
182
Avouch thy boast, or it deny!”
Soon as his voice De Clifford heard,
No halt made he for taunting word,
But cheered the knights of his command,
And rushed to meet him hand to hand.
Strong as Disdain his well-nerved arm,
Loyal his heart, all true and warm,
He sprang to meet his mighty foe;
“Who vainly boasts let this day show!”
Where was his son at this dread hour,
When Rage and Hatred o'er him lour?
He fights not in his father's band;
Afar he holds some high command.
But numbers round De Clifford fought,
Who Danger's vanmost heroes sought;
Whom zeal and reverence and pride
Held close embattled at his side.
XXXV.
When Clement from his post looked downClose on this quarter of the town,
And viewed the fateful turmoil there,
Scarce could his mounting spirit bear
183
While cries for doubtful victory
Pierced to the very vault of air;
But monks below, on battlement,
Who watched how the fierce contest went,
Of these, scarce one but blessed the day
When he to Abbey took his way,
And bound himself to shun all battle-fray.
XXXVI.
Hark! Warwick hath burst the barrier,And in the surge of combat there,
Which rolled not on, but to and fro,
Alternate swayed for friend and foe,
Each individual form was lost,
So mingled was that mighty host.
No eye might now De Clifford trace,
Nor eager Warwick's lofty grace;
Yet knew where each the conflict held
By fall of horse and crash of shield.
And oh! what mingled sounds arose
Above the trumpet's fiercest call!
The yell of havock—shrieking woes
Of matrons, from the latticed wall,
184
Who view a son, or husband fall,
And under trampling charger lie,
In deep, expiring agony!
XXXVII.
Now arrows thickening in the air,With hiss incessant, shrill, and near,
Warned from each open battlement
The crowding monks that o'er it bent.
But Clement, in his turret-cell,
From evil hap was sheltered well;
Yet wounded was his sight by flow
Of human blood in streams below.
Not so the raven's o'er his head,
As mute he watched the slaughtered;
Unseen companion! stern and sly,
Waiting his banquet of the dead,
Impatient while the dying die!
XXXVIII.
And now, behold the barrier-guardPressed back into the rising street;
Where houses hide their slow retreat
From Clement's view, though hitherward
185
For, on this steeply-mounting hill
The Abbey stood, part screened below
By wall and gate and orchard-bough.
And, while afar bold Warwick's force
Beyond the barrier he could watch,
Yet might our Clement sparely catch
Glimpse of the nearer battle's course.
At times o'er wall, or waving branch,
Appeared high plume on helmed brow,
Or iron hand upraised to launch
The battle axe, or sabre blow;
The threatened blow he well might see,
But not it's fateful certainty;
A falling horseman he might spy,
Or a freed charger passing by,
Or warrior bleeding on the ground,
Even just without the Abbey's round.
XXXIX.
The battle's strength still slowly pressedUp Holywell, on Warwick's side,
When Clement from his secret nest
Heard 'larums new and shoutings, wide;
186
He marked a troop of Henry's horse
Led on by Percy's self, at speed:
They came at Clifford's utmost need,
With fierce and threatening cries afar,
And checked awhile the tide of war.
'Twas Percy of Northumberland,
Rode vanmost of the gallant band:
And Buckingham and Stafford's earl
Led where the crimson flags unfurl;
And many a knight and baron bold,
In battle and in honours old,
And many a youth, who but that morn
Had first his knightly emblems worn.
XL.
To Clement it was dreadful sight,This press of noble chief and knight;
For now more deadly raged the fight.
And here the place of war outspread,
Showed him their armour streaming red,
And almost every wound, that bled.
And down the charger's panting side
He marked the gushing slaughter-tide!
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Or neck the mailed mainfaire shields,
Or breast-plate fills it's ample space;
Such garniture poor shelter yields.
XLI.
King Henry's bravest warriors move,Great Warwick's hardiness to prove,
While, closely urged by foeman's spear,
The wounded coursers plunge and rear,
With outspread nostrils raised in air,
And fiery eyes, that shoot despair;
They trample back the crowd behind,
Who, upward on the steep hill forced,
Press other troops in street confined;
Then chargers fall, and men unhorsed
O'er their own dead and dying go,
Nor horror, nor even pity know,
Conscious of nought but hate and strife,
Reckless of quickly-ebbing life,
Fighting on foot 'gainst horse and lance,
Meeting in vain their foe's advance;
Till, on the heaped and nameless dead,
They reach their final gory bed.
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XLII.
Now other trumpets, blown with might,North, East, and West, spoke triple fight;
But loudest strains swelled from the way
Where their liege-lord, King Henry, lay.
There York himself the barrier burst,
And on St. Peter's Green was first.
And now, on summit of the town,
Where stood Queen Ellen's shrine alone,
King Henry's troops make their firm stand;
As if each man thought his sole hand
Fought on that spot for the whole land.
And from that summit of the town,
On the four main-ways looking down,
At every bar, save one, they see
The archers of the enemy;
And crowding helms, and ill-spurred horse,
Trampling o'er the new-fallen corse,
And forcing back each barrier-guard,
Mount where that Shrine had long kept solemn ward.
XLIII.
That Shrine, where Silence wont to dwell,And listen to the breathing spell
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Of monk thus wooing the soul's calm;
Or the long sweep of winter's wind,
Like sigh of disembodied mind;
Or winter wind, or summer shower
Falling on leaves of Abbey-bower:—
That shrine of Edward's lasting love,
Where reverend steps alone might move,
Which every eye with tears survey'd,
While every head it's homage paid,
Where tenderest thoughts still hovered round,
And gentle visions blessed the ground,
Wearing Queen Ellen's mien and smile again,
Who sucked the venom from her husband's vein.
XLIV.
Upon the steep of Holywell,The strife of death had ceased to swell;
'Twas filled with slayer and with slain,
And there alone did Warwick reign:
Yet slowly mount his conquering train;
For hardly may they make their way,
So heaped the bleeding bodies lay.
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Trembles before the life-stream red;
Bristles his horror-lifted mane;
His tossing nostrils speak his pain.
Still, with distorted side-long leer,
He views the object of his fear;
At last his shuddering feet uprear,
At last the spur assails in vain.
The warrior on his back feels less,
Though better might that warrior know
The signs of suffering and woe,
And his own doubtful fortune guess.
But poor ambition, thoughtless pride,
Bear him, scarce moved, through battle's tide.
XLV.
Then Clement left his raven-nest,And to a Saxon turret pressed
That o'er the northern transept rose,
Where all around Queen Ellen's bier
He wide might view, and all might hear,
Even till the battle's close.
As he approached that turret-stair,
Lone were the Shrines and Chantries near;
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Stole o'er the drear length of the pile,
But all so hushed the scene beneath,
It seemed the hall and throne of Death.
XLVI.
Clement had gained the turret-floor,And pressed the massy oaken door:
Surprised he found himself among
The Abbot and a younger throng
Of monks, whose sight could pierce afar,
And tell the varying tide of war.
From their full window he withdrew,
And to the sister-turret hied,
That looked on the same northern view,
Commanding o'er it far and wide:
Here—though a crowd of hooded heads
Darkened the double Saxon arch,
Fled from high tower and open leads,—
Here might he watch the battle's march.
XLVII.
From blessed Peter's tower on highTo Ellen's shrine of sanctity,
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The broad way of that fateful field.
The long green vista stretched below,
Straight as an arrow from a bow.
There, close around that ancient tower,
Incessant fell the arrowy shower;
O'er graves and charnel vaults it flew,
It cleared the streets in Clement's view.
Duke Richard's self, commanding there,
Had forced the northern barrier;
Waged war o'er the long-buried dead
And blood upon their homes had shed.
And many a youthful warrior brave,
In his first armour dressed,
Fought even upon his very grave,
His morrow's final rest.
XLVIII.
From that dark tower the long broad wayWas thronged with Henry's bands,
Close pressing where their monarch lay,
And where his banner, floating gay,
Richard's full force withstands.
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Nor Somerset's high blazonry;
But Buckingham's pale plume he knew,
And his white armour's silvery hue;
And, while he gazed, he saw him bow,
Then rise and totter in his seat,
And rein his charger to retreat.
A shaft has pierced his iron brow;
He sinks to earth; the dark streams flow.
XLIX.
Stafford, his noble son, fought near,But saw not when his father fell;
And soon the battle's onward swell
Checked, though not turned, his own career.
For, vain the terrors of his spear,
A fatal dart his gauntlet caught;
'Twas pain, not danger, as he thought,
And, heedless of that pain, he fought
Till, fainting with the bleeding wound,
He falls on henchmen pressing round,
Who bear him senseless from the ground.
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L.
But, yonder, on St. Peter's way,With long sweep and resistless sway,
The surge of battle rolls along,
And threatens even the household throng,
Who watch their King, this fateful day.
And now, behold his banner there
Bow low and totter in the air;
And now, from forth his guarded hall,
St. Alban's lofty Seneschal,
And Henry's self, appear.
Yet feebly did the King advance,
As bending to some dire mischance,
His vizor close, his sword in hand,
And guarded by a noble band
And crowds of demi-lance.
LI.
He mounted on his battle-horse,But turned him from the battle's course,
Or would have turned; the warrior steed
Showed daring high for other deed.
Long did his stubborn neck disdain
To bend him from the trumpet's strain,
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With spurning heel and arching mane,
He baffled still the guiding rein.
He would have borne his lord away,
And plunged him in the thickest fray,
But that a friend, though loth to yield,
With strong arm bore him from the field.
LII.
Yet hardly through the gory street,So thick the dead and dying lay,
Could the guard find a safe retreat
For Henry, or pass on their way.
Then Lancaster's sad heart sunk low,
Ill could he brook such sight of woe;
Shuddering he turned aside his head,
While his steed stepped among the dead;
But still to his averted eyes
Other grim shapes of horror rise,
And “Peace, O! blessed Peace,” he cried;
While knights, who warded at his side,
Could scarce restrain their rising pride.
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Swore round his Rose to live, or die.
LIII.
And had our sovereign lady, DameMargaret, the Queen, been here,
Her cheek had crimsoned o'er with shame
To view her husband's fear;
Though sorrow and disease oppressed
The princely spirit in his breast.
Not thus she fled, when second war
Dyed Alban's field with blood,
But, high on Victory's iron car,
Rushed through the purple flood.
But pity tempered not her ire;
No tear-drop dewed her eye of fire;
No hallowed fear her conscience held,
Nor piety her proud heart quelled;
These virtues, that ambition thwart,
Drew not upon her course the rein;
Brought not the pause—the second thought,
That passion's impulse may restrain:
Rapid and fierce she pressed her way,
Though Truth and Mercy bleeding lay.
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When mourned for thee St. Alban's knell.
LIV.
Danger, when braved, like coward flies,And safety, sought, oft wayward hies;
And this King Henry's heart was taught,
Even while he humble shelter sought.
For, ere he reached a cottage-wall,
An arrow-wound had made him fall,
But that his band close round him throng,
And bear him on his steed along;
And, wounded, bleeding, fainting, slow,
A thatched roof shrouds a Monarch's woe.
LV.
Return we now to Ellen's shrine,Where, thronging through the four street-ways,
Ensigns and plumes still wave and shine,
And falchions flash and helmets blaze,
And flights of arrows dim the air,
Rattling like hail,
On shield and mail,
In chorus with the war-shouts there.
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O'erlooked Plantagenet's chief power,
Still, in Sir Philip Wentworth's care,
Proudly the Royal Banner stood.
But now, while onward swept the flood,
That standard trembled in the air,
And foremost fled the traitor-knight,
Sworn to maintain that banner's right.
He fled, without a single wound,
He fled, and cast it on the ground!
Then, scarce opposed, York's special guard
Made dreadful havock down the street;
And, though below their way was barred,
'Twas there their whole force thronged to meet.
VI.
Long did the noblest of the landRound Ellen's mournful bier withstand
The triple-guided force
Of Warwick, York, and Salisbury;
Oh! it was dreadful truth to see
The battle press it's course
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Where, crushed into a narrow space,
The band of heroes fought
For him, who meekly wore the crown
From sire and grandsire given down,
By his own will unsought.
It was a gallant, mournful sight
To see those warriors few
Die for the cause which they thought right,
—Allegiance they thought due.
LVII.
And now the rumour faintly spread,That Henry wounded was, and fled;
Nay, lay in humble cottage dead.
Then first his faithful knights knew dread.
But, transient was such sense of woe,
And, “Vengeance! Victory!” they cried;
“His son shall triumph, though he died.”
Richard of York, the while, had sought
Where the King wounded lay,
And soon to his low roof was brought,
And claimed the prize of that fierce day.
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His conqueror on bending knee,
With feigned suit and bold pretence,
Protesting truth and reverence.
In wily words, with poor deceit,
York said he never meant him ill;
That he had only armed to meet
Those foes, whose dark, ambitious will
Had ruled his councils and the realm,
And shortly would his throne o'erwhelm.
But now, those enemies o'erthrown,
If Henry would their acts disown,
And rule the English land alone,
His true liege-subject he would prove,
And henceforth only seek his love.
LVIII.
And thus swore all York's subtle band;But, adding still a new demand,
They claimed to guard the King from foes,
Lest evil council should dispose
His virtuous will to vengeful deed,
And, by retaliation, lead
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Now, this urged Richard's subtle train;
And further “safety to maintain,”
They asked he on the morn would go
To London, in their duteous care,
And choose with them a council fair.
LIX.
And thus, with humble look and word,The Duke his loftier hope deferred.
Though Victory was on his side,
He secretly might own,
Time had not brought on the spring-tide
Might bear him to the throne.
To win this venturous battle-day,
Such arts had now been tried
As could not claim continued sway,
Nor long his fortune guide.
But, for the moment gratified,
He left to future hour his claim,
That surer he might work his aim;
And therefore did he lowly bow,
Though victor, to his captive now.
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LX.
Soon did fair speech King Henry gain,While his heart, filled with grief
For others' jeopardy and pain,
In words now sought relief.
“Spare, spare my people's blood,” he said,
“This moment bid the slaughter rest,
My will shall then by your's be led;
My pardon take for all the past.
Lead me within the Abbey walls;
This scene of blood my heart appals!”
LXI.
Straight, Warwick bade the carnage cease,And bleeding strife was hushed in peace.
That fateful moment who may paint!
Meet instant for the joy of saint!
The sword upraised withheld the blow,
That might have laid a brother low.
Then, sire and son, in armour clasped,
While almost cach the other grasped,
And strove against the other's life,
Heard the low strain, that stills the strife.
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They gaze; they shudder, and they praise!
The song of Peace is on the air,
Her snowy signal floating there!
One moment stopped the woe prepared,
And death, remorse, and horror spared.
Oh! may that saintly moment be
Enshrined in high eternity;
And there to blessed Henry give
Such joy of Peace as he bade live!
END OF THE THIRD CANTO.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |