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)

III,IV.

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.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

204

CANTO IV. THE HOUR AFTER THE BATTLE.

I.

Now to St. Alban's shrine was led
The captive King with royal guard;
While Richard at his side kept ward,
And Men-at-arms, with stately tread,
Encompassing about him went,
Beneath the Abbey's battlement.
But, who King Henry's woes may tell,
As he passed on the blood-stained way,
Where half his gallant nobles fell,
And yet untouched, uncovered lay,
Scarce cold, upon the gory heap,
Fixed in their last, unbreathing sleep!—
The friends, who on this very morn,
Since when but few brief hours had sped,

205

Had high sway in his council borne;
Who bent with him the thoughtful head!
Whose living eye by his was read!—
Now, ever closed their earthly dream;
All vanished, like a phantom's gleam;
The veil withdrawn—the vision fled!

II.

The Abbot at the Abbey-gate
The victor and the vanquished met;
And thence, with bands in formal march,
And monks arranged in order long,
Led to the farthest eastern arch,
With mourning chant from the full throng;
Where Henry, on St. Alban's tomb,
Sought to disperse his mental gloom.

III.

Such Vision still is seen to mourn,
When evening-twilight falls,
By him, who on that day's return
Stands silent by these walls—
The vanquished Sire, the victor Chief,
The mitred Abbot pale in years,

206

Whose cheek seems furrowed o'er by grief,
And sanctified by Pity's tears,
The pious fathers, side by side,
And the whole Convent's choral pride;
Three times beneath the Chancel's gloom,
They move around St. Alban's tomb,
Through open arches that appear,
As once they wont above the bier,
But, when the dream has passed away,
Close, and are seen as at this day.

IV.

It is a strange and fearful sight—
The Vision of that dreary night!
—To watch those shadows crowding by,
Each moving in his ordered place,
Like living form, with deathly face,
Distinct, and busy to the eye,
With gesture true of solemn rite;
Yet not a whisper heard, the while,
Of step, or voice, upon the aisle;
—It is a strange and fearful sight!

207

V.

But other scene, on that midnight,
Has shook the sexton with affright,
While passing o'er the glimmering nave,
By the dim flame his lanthorn gave.
Sudden, on each low tomb around,
A bleeding bier has seemed to rest,
Where stern in death a warrior frowned,
With funeral watch-light o'er his crest.
Where'er the old man turned his view,
Has seemed such face of livid hue.
But feeble age has fancies strange!
Youth may, on that same midnight, range
Through choir and aisle, and nothing see,
Save Norman arch and gallery,
And the brass-bounden grave of him,
Who sang the warrior's dying hymn.
But, leave we now such idle dream,
To mind the past, yet real theme.

VI.

Low at St. Alban's tomb they knelt,
The Conqueror and his King,

208

The Monarch hushed the pang he felt;
Nor did the victor sing
Memorial for the battle won,
But, decent, mourned the slaughter done.
Then solemn, from the Choir below,
The hymn of Vespers rose,
And, while meek Henry's tears fast flow,
Breathed balm upon his woes;
But, transient was the sad repose:—
It ended with the Vespers' close!

VII.

Just where the King did lowly bend,
Lay Gloucester in his grave!
His truest counsellor and friend,
Whom yet he failed to save
From Margaret's hate and Beaufort's guile,—
All unsuspicious he, the while,
Of the fell hatred that they bare
His kinsman—and their murderous snare,
And of his own progressive fate.
Had good Duke Humphrey ruled the state,
His truth had been his Sovereign's shield
Gainst treason, open, or concealed.

209

Good Gloucester slept within this space,
And Henry, sufferer in his place,
Stood o'er his grave, in sanctuary
From his own rebel soldiery!
Oh! who may dare unfold
The darkening thoughts that o'er his spirit rolled,
And from his memory threatened soon to sweep
All paler records of long years, that weep,
While, thus a captive, with his foe he bent
Silent o'er bleeding Gloucester's monument.

VIII.

When service in the Choir was o'er,
The Monarch and his train
Passed onward to the cloister-door,
Led by the Abbot, as before,
With the full chaunted strain,
To rest in royal chambers nigh,
The honoured Abbot's guarded guest,
Beneath the velvet-canopy,
Whose couch he oft in peace had pressed.
How different is his present state
From that he once had known,

210

When Westminster proclaimed his fate
Was France and England's throne;
When, passing from the tapers' glare,
Just cumbered with his crown of care,
With infant smile he laughed to see
Such crowds and blaze of pageantry!

IX.

Ah! had he dimly then perceived
The secret of the gift received,
Stained with the blood of former times,
And thickly set with deadly crimes,
Gleaming with woes and passions dire
From 'mid Ambition's smouldering fire,
How had he shrunk, and wished to lie
“In shades of quiet privacy!”
And, ere he wore it for his own,
Renounced at once his father's crown.
Now, all it's terrors blazed, confest,
And peace for ever left his breast.
Yet might he not his path retread,
And give from his anointed head
The diadem his fathers gave,
Which fixed him for a party's slave.

211

X.

Hard was the heart, and stern the mind,
And to it's own contentment blind,
That could unloose a kingdom's woes,
Within that painful crown confined,
While firm it circled Henry's brows;
That could a selfish, slumbering right
Rouse from it's lair in Time's dim night;
Cry “Havock!” and pursue the prey
But for Ambition's holiday!
Hard was the heart, and dark the mind!
Such his, who Henry's path beside
Marched where the convent-train inclined,
Beneath the Transept's vaulted pride.

XI.

And thus was ranged the stately march,
When the King passed the Transept-arch:—
On his right-hand the Abbot walked,
Mitred and in his cope of gold,
The pious monarch's gift of old;
And on his left Duke Richard stalked.
Straight from the place of war came he,
Nor moment spared his casque to free;

212

Aloft the white plume proudly rose,
But soiled with crimson were it's snows,
And Henry paid a bitter tear
For every gore-drop speaking there.
Beneath, the lion-passant crest
His royal lineage professed;
And vizor up might darkly show
The meaning of his anxious brow;
While Richard's form and stately grace,
His stature high, and martial pace,
Decisive look, and eye of fire,
Steady, though keen, and quick and dire,
Gave contrast to King Henry's air,
Who, wan from wound, from grief and care,
Moved with unequal step and slow,
With wearied countenance of woe,
And weeping, with uplifted eye
Of meekness and of piety.

XII.

The reverend father, by his side,
Though pale and bowed with care and age,
Still showed an aspect dignified,

213

A look of mildly-tempered pride,
Such as doth love and awe engage.
As some tall arch, in fretted state,
Left lonely 'mid the wrecks of fate,
Though perished be each gorgeous stain
That coloured high the storied pane;
Though broken be the moulded line,
That flowed with grandeur of design;
Though shades of many a hoary year
With lights of silver grey are there;
Th' awakened mind yet more supplies
Than Time has stolen from our eyes;
And o'er the ruin's desert space,
That arch throws high and shadowy grace,
Wraps us in pleasures almost holy
Of reverence, love and melancholy.

XIII.

Through the great cloister passed the train,
Where the carved trefoil windows glowed
With many a rich illumined pane,
By living Whetehampstede bestowed.
Large was the verdant plain within,
High the arched walks encompassing.

214

Now darkened was that long-stretched way
With Alban's hundred monks; though gay
In scarlet copes went Chancellor,
The noble Steward, Seneschal,
And officers in the rich pall
They wore on solemn festival;
In snowy state, each Chorister,
Chaunting before the mournful King,
Till he had reached that guarded door,
Where, tall and light, the arches soar
That lift the Chapter's vaulted ring.

XIV.

Then part the King and priestly band,
Who, in long line, on either hand
Bend lowly, as he moves along,
Smiling upon the cowled throng,
To the last murmur of their song.
Still marched Duke Richard at his side,
And still the Abbot was his guide.
A different train received the guest,
Soon as he moved from his short rest:
Soldiers, with helm and pike arrayed,
Lined the long walk of cloister-shade,

215

That lay between the abbey aisle
And royal lodge, a stately pile.
A royal homage still they paid
In the meek hymn the trumpets played.
How felt the King, when close he viewed
Hands drenched with his good people's blood,
And looks that said they held in ward,
And still would hold, their sovereign lord!

XV.

In the King's Parlour waited now
Poor banquet, served in saddest mood,
Where pages round their monarch bow,
And captive knights indignant stood,
To view their injured King bestow
His speech upon his subtle foe,
Who wrought this day of blood and woe.
With starting tear of gratitude
And pity, good King Henry viewed
His faithful servants near him stand,
And here attend—a prisoner-band.
Not Richard's truth, nor courtesy,
Had placed them here, but policy.

216

And Henry, though not thus deceived,
Such art instead of truth received.
Fill not for him the wassail-bowl,
Strike not the minstrel-string;
These may not o'er his saddened soul
Their brief delirium fling:
For he has passed among the dead,
And Truth's great lesson there has read,
As from each face the mask she drew,
And showed what phantoms we pursue!
While to his wandering troubled eye,
Life's strifeful progress seemed one sigh!

XVI.

But short repose the banquet gave,
Ere Warwick and Earl Salisbury crave
Audience of him they still call King;
And many a wily guest they bring.
Straight from the field they came in haste,
Informed on all points to the last.
Now to the Council-room repaired,
With harassed mind, their wounded Lord,
To sign his pardons, and reward
The traitors, who his life yet spared.

217

The Abbot to his chamber drew
(His heart to Henry ever true)
To gain a quiet pause, though sad,—
Perchance an unseen tear to shed,
And lift his thoughts where oft they fled.

XVII.

Then order to the Steward went,
That hospitable cheer
Should to the Abbey gates be sent
Of bread and meat and beer;
And to each soldier, friend or foe,
Dole from buttery-hatch should go;
But other store of food was small;
For thousands thronged in Alban's wall,
And every townsman's board was spread
For victor, or for conquered.
Now, at each postern and low gate,
The Monks dispense to all, that wait,
What fare they may: but, who can show
The groups that, gathering below,
Now stood beneath the reverend tower,
Emblems of battle's bleeding hour?

218

Wan were their features, fierce, though faint
From toil and hunger and dismay,
Just 'scaped with life the deadly fray;
Their o'erstrained muscles quivered still;
Their eager eyes, suspecting ill,
Were watchful yet of all around,
Even on this consecrated ground.
The broken armour's crimson sheen
Showed what the owner's lot had been;
There grimly did the cap of steel
Dint of strong battle-axe reveal,
Or cuirass, bearing sign of spear,
Proved Death had threatened entrance here.
All were so changed with dust and gore,
Their nearest friends had passed them o'er;
And their strange, rude and broken tone,
Not wife, nor courted lass had known.

XVIII.

While thus beneath St. Alban's shade,
Panting, these bands of Havock stayed,
Round crowded porch and postern nigh,

219

Some outstretched on the graves are laid,
On lower wall some rest the head,
They ne'er again may hold on high.
And some within the sacred aisle
Lean on an altar-tomb the while,
And, flinging down the bleeding sword,
Instead of offering humbled word,
Greet with an oath the watch-monk there,
Whose low-breathed hymn and pious care,
With kindest awe and gratitude,
In all but basest hearts ill passion had subdued.

XIX.

Some, too, there were, whose evil eye
Scowled on the Monks, as they supply,
With kindness meek, due sustenance,
Sweet'ning the bounty they dispense.
“Well may they give of ample store,
Wrung from the land and famished poor,
To bribe us to forbearance now
From plunder of their shrines, I trow!
Methinks our swords have something won

220

From lazy Monks, who live i' th' sun
And roll in riches of the land;
While others, by hard toil of hand,
May scantly live from day to day.
Yet, listening to their cunning saye,
Henry and Richard bid us ‘Nay.’
Let such folks in a convent stay;
But, by St. Alban's crown of gold,
I would not—I—for them withhold
From treasures now within our reach,
Though Kings command and Abbots preach.”
Then, rousing from his sullen mood,
Such soldier snatched his comrade's food;
And so displayed to humblest sense
The motive of his fair pretence.

END OF THE FOURTH CANTO.

University of Virginia Library

CANTO IV. THE HOUR AFTER THE BATTLE.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

XVI.

XVII.

XVIII.

XIX.