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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| V. | CANTO V. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE. |
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
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CANTO V. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.
SCENE—WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ST. ALBAN'S.I.
In angry gloom the sun went downUpon St. Alban's bleeding town,
While sadly many a Red-rose knight,
Escaping from the ruthless fight,
Traversed the woods and wild hills round;
And ever sought he tangled ground,
Pathless and dim and far away
From peasant-foe, who might convey
Notice to Richard's scouts and bands,
Prowling for prey o'er Alban's lands.
II.
Oft would the lonely Warrior startAt glance of arms, shot through the shade,
Where bright the western sun-beam played,
Judging some foeman watched apart;
222
Where only might he guess to see
Sweet violets sleeping to the hush
Of southern breeze, 'neath oaken tree,—
Strange there to spy a warrior's casque,
Or cuirass gleam, or steely mask;
An eyeless horror, stern and still,
Amid the peace of leaf and rill.
It was but harness, thrown aside,
Whose cumbrous weight had stayed the flight
Of some sad comrade of the fight,
In the late scene of evil-tide.
These armour-signs, if spelt aright,
Might tell whose footsteps he might trace
Along the rude and desert place.
III.
Oft would he pause on woody hill,Listening if all were lone and still.
And oh! how still it seemed and lone
To one escaped from battle-bray,
From raging and from dying moan
To Nature's grand and peaceful sway!
223
Among the linden foliage here!
How fresh and gay it's blossomed spray;
How sweet and good her smiles appear!
Sublime her ordered laws and true
Moved o'er the landscape's evening-hue,
And solemn in the thunder spoke,
That, far off, on the hill-tops broke.
Sublime her stormy lights and shade,
Which all the stretching view pervade.
Her storms no moral evil show,
To work—like human tempest—woe;
But health and goodness from them flow,
Quickly and sure as tears of Spring
The Summer's fruit and beauty bring.
IV.
The Red-rose Knight, who from the hillYet watched where wood and vale were still,
Had 'scaped, though wounded, from the strife,
And hardly 'scaped with limb and life.
He fought, until King Henry's host,
By treachery foul, not weakness, lost,
224
Deceived, betrayed, and trampled down.
This loyal Knight of Lancaster,
Though not in Alban's prison bound,
Was not yet free from anxious fear
For friends, who fought upon that ground;
And yet he lingered on the hill
With parting look, and listened still,
As if his eye, or ear, might glean
Tidings of that now distant scene.
V.
He heard, perchance, faint trumpet-strainMarshal for watch some knightly train;
Or neigh of charger, high and shrill,
And sounds perplexed and dubious thrill;
Or 'larum-drum and shout afar,
The dying tremour of the war;
Or, deep and full, St. Alban's bell
Roll on the breeze the warrior's knell.
And he would gaze, with sad farewell,
Where yet the gliding splendour falls,
Along those ancient towers and walls.
225
VI.
Throned in the vale and pomp of wood,The Norman Abbey darkly stood,
And frowned upon that place of blood,
Beneath the lowering western cloud;
Till the sun, from stormy shroud,
Looked out, in fierce, yet sullen ire,
And touched the towering pile with fire.
Below, each battled turret seemed
The Martyr's crown of flame to wear;
While, through the airy arches there,
The sun's red splendour streamed.
But transept-roofs and aisles between
Lay stretched in darker tint and mien,
As if they mourned the slaughtered dead,
Laid out in blood, beneath their shade.
Slowly the vision changed it's hue,
In sullen mists the sun withdrew,
A ball of lurid fire, from view.
Yet curving lines of burnished gold,
(Traced where light clouds their edges fold)
Through the red haze, his station told.
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Faded each tower and turret pale;
Till, shapeless, huge, obscure as doom,
The Abbey stood in steadfast gloom;
Vast, indistinct, and lone,
Like Being from a world unknown!
VII.
While the worn Warrior gazed his last,The death-bell spoke upon the blast.
And now, while he beheld afar—
Himself secure—that place of war,
And heard again that deep death-bell
Along the evening breezes swell,
Each moment waked a tenderer fear,
Each toll made one dear friend more dear.
He marvelled how he could have fled,
Uncertain of their fate;
And back resolved his steps to tread,
And seek to know their state.
Then, through the gloom he bent his way,
Led by the Abbey's solemn lay.
High music on the soul it played
Of thoughts beyond this earth's low shade.
227
VIII.
Though on St. Alban's tower and townThe shadows of the tempest frown,
In softened shade, along the vale,
Peace seemed to dwell in twilight pale.
O'er the long, fading forest line,
Village and hamlet, hid beneath,
Sent up on high their silent sign
Of evening cheer, the thin grey wreath;
Village and hamlet, that by day
Veiled in the sleeping shadows lay,
Or, in blue distance, gave faint show
Of roofs and social scenes below.
Ah! treacherous to their own repose!
Such wreath betrays to watchful foes,
Scowering the hills and heath-land nigh,
Where dear, though humble, treasures lie,
And the bright-blazing hearth may share,
Though not the crimes, the woes, of war.
To other eyes such blaze might speak
Of succour, that they vainly seek,
For bleeding wound, for ebbing life,
For fainting nature's last, last strife.
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The Warrior's eyes are dim in night!
No arm his sinking head may prop,
No light hand dry the chilly drop;
The damps of death are on his brow,
Oh! for some aid—some comfort now!
That now is passed, he breathes no more;
Unseen—unheard—his pangs are o'er!
IX.
Where were his friends when he sunk low?Knew they no strange presaging woe?
Felt they no instinct of that hour,
No touch of sympathy's deep power,
Run o'er the shuddering nerves, and wake
Tones from the heart, that anguish spake?
Like to that lyre's prophetic call,
Self-sounding from the lonely wall,
Whose only utterance was a sigh,
To hint when death, or woe, was nigh.
Ah, no! they talked, or laughed, or sang,
Unconscious of his dying pang.
No eye wept o'er his lowly bier,
The dew of heaven his only tear;
And sighs of eve alone were here,
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As if they mourned the Warrior dead;
Making his stillness seem more still;
More sad the shade of grove and hill.
X.
Here shall he rest till distant day,In the deep forest's untrod way,
Coffined in steely arms alone;
And, for carved sepulchre of stone,
And foliaged vault of choral-aisle,
The living oak, with darker smile,
Shall arch it's broad leaves o'er his form,
Poor shroud and guard from sun and storm!
The woodlark shall his requiem sing,
Perched high upon his branchy tomb;
And every morn, though morn of Spring,
Shall o'er him spread a mournful gloom;
And every eve, at twilight pale,
His chantry-bird shall sweetly wail;
And glow-worms, with their watch-torch clear,
Wait mutely round his grassy bier,
Keeping aloof from his dark rest
Reptiles, that haunt the hour, unblest;
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And 'balm anew the soldier dead.
XI.
There was, who, from her distant bower,Watched all that day St. Alban's tower,
As if its visage could have shown
The dreadful tale it looked upon,
And told to her the doubted fate
Of him, on whom her fears await,
Who joined King Henry, on that morn.
Oh! shall he to his shades return,
And through the oak's broad foliage view,
Once more, the vale and mountains blue?
May then their peaceful branches wave
High welcomes o'er his knightly plume,
Or, shedding deep their saddening gloom,
Murmur low dirges o'er his grave?
XII.
Pale with anxiety and fear,She in her silent bower must wait,
Her playful infants came not there;
Her spirits ill their songs could bear
While doubtful of their father's fate.
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With various rumours of the war,
“His lord had late been seen in fight!”
So told the fleetest of the flight.
Another had beheld him fall,
When Warwick burst the barrier wall,
A third, report of fell wound brought;
A fourth, that vainly he was sought.
Slight rumours all—yet each some dread of ill
In heart of lovely Florence did instill.
XIII.
In oriel and in alley greenBy turns she sat, or walked, unseen.
Th' unfolding buds of Spring were there,
Breathing delight upon the air.
Health, life, and joy, by song of birds
As well are told, as if by words.
Those opening buds, that breath of joy,
That song of birds did but annoy
Attention, that for faintest sound
Listened from Alban's fearful ground.
Oft on the calm there seemed to float
Murmur confused—a trumpet's note,—
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The sharper clash of arms aloof—
Tumultuous shout—the onset cry—
Signal of some, that meet and die.—
Whose summons heard she in that call?
Oh! at that moment who might fall!
XIV.
Attention each fine sound pursued,Till doubt and distance seemed subdued;
She listened then, as if her ear
Could bring each phantom of her fear
In real shape before her sight.
There glowed the terrors of the fight!
She saw her loved lord wounded sink,
And slowly from the battle shrink,
With not a hand his arm to stay,
Or help him, where he bleeding lay.
Farther she dared not—could not, think.
XV.
Aghast and motionless, in trance,While such terrific visions glance,
She rose up from her pale despair,
His fate to soften, or to share.
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Would fly to covert of a bower;
Whom thunder tortured with alarm,
Though sheltered in his faithful arm;
Who lived in privacy's safe round,
And joys in cares domestic found
(The cherub-smile of infancy,
The look of love, still watching by);
Whose heart would to best music move—
The music breathed by breath of love,
The music of Affection's eye—
That varied world of harmony!
Even she renounced all feeble fear,
Pressed by a danger more severe;
And felt the spirit of the brave,
When her mind caught the hope to save.
XVI.
Till near the falling of the sun,It was not known the fight was done;
And then, that lady's messenger,
With face, that spoke before his tongue,
Of horrors, that round Alban throng,
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But tiding of her lord came none!
A dreadful silence wrapt his name—
The pause, ere falls the lightning's flame,
Might be just image of the same.
Without a tear, without a sigh,
She read dismay in every eye.
Unbreathing calmness o'er her face
Now veiled, with melancholy grace,
Her courage,—moral courage,—love,
That soon their truth and strength must prove.
XVII.
One ancient servant, faithful found,She chose to guide her on her way,
And search with her the blood-stained ground,
Where dead and wounded still might lay.
In vain that humble steward sought
To win her from such daring thought,
And told the dangers that await
Wide round St. Alban's bleeding gate;
And she, who ne'er had viewed the face
Of slaughtered man, how might she trace,
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Where their last breath the vanquished yield!
How search for face of her dear lord,
Or, finding, live and aid afford!
XVIII.
Florence a forceful sigh suppressed,“Haste! not a moment may we rest.
Such aid even now he needs; away!
He bleeds—he dies, while we delay!”—
“How, lady, may you reach the town,
On public road, unseen, unknown;
And seen and known, how, prison-free,
Escape the grasp of enemy?
A shorter path perchance might lead
O'er open ground of heath or mead;
But that was viewed by every eye:
While through the forest's closer way,
The dim paths far and widely stray.
How reach the guarded barrier?
And, lady, how might you endure
The weary path; or how procure
The pass of posted warrior!”—
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My palfrey bear me, while he may;
My purpose will my steps sustain;
Away—to horse! away, away!”
XIX.
By sense of duty thus upheld,By strong affection thus impelled,
Florence must quit her sheltered home,
O'er desolated tracks to roam.
In chamber, gallery, orieled-hall,
Her home was deadly stillness all;
But stillness without peace—more drear
Such stillness, than the War's career!
It seemed, as through the hall she passed,
Murmured a mourning trumpet-blast.
She turned, as sad it died away,
And, while the slanting western ray
Played through a casement's ivy wreath,
And touched the armoured shape beneath,
That stood, like guardian of the hall,
By stair, where fearful shadows fall,
She thought the corslet heaved, as life
Was there beneath, with death at strife.
237
Trembling in light her eye deceives.
XX.
Short pause she made within the court;Her steed received her as in sport,
When fresh from cheer of green-wood shade;
Though now no soft caress she laid
Upon his glossy neck, or face,
Nor gave him word of gentle grace.
Yet did he know her, though the 'guise
Might wrap her from a stranger's eyes;
And pawed the ground, in mantling joy,
And arched his crest, and turned his eye,
And champed the bit, with nostril wide,
And laid his playful head aside,
As asking welcomes from her hand,
And suing for it's light command.
XXI.
Old Leonard led through forest-way,And pointed where St. Alban's lay,
With look of grave and anxious thought.
The sun those lofty turrets brought
238
Sickened and darkened, as in night.
Yes, though she felt the western blaze,
Strange gloom, all cheerless, met her gaze.
She saw the sun—she knew his beam,
Yet seemed in dimness of a dream!
With mingled grief and terror filled,
Her spirits scarce their task fulfilled;
Yet did her will it's purpose hold,
As might the boldest of the bold.
Right onward, as the path might go,
She pressed, to meet the coming woe.
The fanning air her frame sustained,
And firmly still her steed she reined.
Though on the Abbey-tower her eye
Was fixed—that tower would seem to fly;
For, though at utmost speed she went,
More distant seemed it's battlement;
And, though she knew her palfrey moved,
That he went forward was not proved.
XXII.
Though true and good the long-loved steed,His weary limbs relaxed their speed.
239
And would resent the whip she plied,
(Unused to feel the goading pain,
And fretting with a high disdain,)
Had other hand but held the rein.
Often would Leonard now implore
That, till the forest-shades were o'er,
His lady, for his master's sake,
Some caution for herself would take,
Nor tempt St. Alban's dangerous wall,
Ere deepest gloom of evening fall.
The sun was yet upon the towers,
And lighted yet her roofs and bowers.
XXIII.
Florence once turned her weary sight,And, in the landscape's beamy light,
Viewed the peaked roofs and glittering vane,
Where slept, in peace, her infant-train.
A sigh—the first she long had known—
Burst from her breast, and fell a tear;
But 'twas not grief she felt, nor fear:
'Twas desolation, hopeless, drear!
She seemed in this vast world alone;
240
Even life itself was desert night.
XXIV.
St. Alban's, onward as they drew,Spoke fearful symptoms of the war;
Tumultuous murmurs, cries afar,
Wild roar, that distance did subdue;
And oft, from path unseen, was heard
Horse-tramp, or shout, or solemn word;
And heavy sounds of woe and pain
Led to the steps of wounded men,
Unhorsed and plundered of their arms,
And jealous still of new alarms.
These Leonard questioned of the fate
Of friends within St. Alban's gate,
While Florence, with attention dread,
Apart, in silence, bent her head.
Little he learned; for scant they knew,
'Wildered in tumult of the fight,
Of what had passed beyond their view;
But in one tale they all unite—
The plundering fury of the foe
241
And their relentless, coward blow;
All urge the strangers to beware,
Nor Alban's fatal barrier dare.
XXV.
Then ancient Leonard urged anewThe dangers would her course pursue;
And Florence yielded now her ear,
By truth warned, not by idle fear.
He led where steed might hardly go
Under the stretching, beechen bough,
A scene of deep repose and gloom,
Hushed as some lonely aisle, or tomb—
So hushed, that here the bird of May
Amid the leaves began her lay;
Not the known lay of joyous morn,
But midnight hymn, sad, sweet and lorn;
Yet sometimes, as her cadence fell,
Strange mournful murmurs seemed to swell—
Sounds indistinct and dark, to wail,
Or darkly hint, some dreadful tale.
242
XXVI.
Sudden, where opening branches yield,Florence beheld the tented field,
Beneath St. Alban's walls afar,
Spread with the various lines of war.
Broad, moving masses she might view,
And hurrying bands of gleamy hue
Preparing for the coming night;
And trains of horse, whose armour bright
Flashed radiance to the western light;
And trumpet-signals faint were heard
And far—halloo and shouted word.
All that there lived, seemed strong in strife,
But 'twas for comforts, not for life—
All that there lived!—alas, that thought!
What strife of hope and fear it brought!
While o'er the scene St. Alban's tower
Looked sternly on the passing hour.
XXVII.
To this wild scene of war's array,—Where busy atoms of a day,
Entrusted with brief rule, had proved
By what slight springs their force is moved,
243
Though on the hills, far to the West,
Dark thunder-shadows awful rest,
There power and grandeur seem combined
With stillness, as of brooding mind.
The purple gloom lay deep and wide,
Save where the umbered splendours glide
Broadly and silent o'er the vale,
And touch with life the forests pale.
XXVIII.
While Florence watched, beneath the shade,The camp in Key's-Field now arrayed,
She shrunk, as danger seemed more near,
Yet found impatience conquering fear;
And, urging on a rapid flight,
Ere hindered by advancing night,
She looked, perchance, upon the way,
Where now her dying husband lay!
Urged by such thought, she paused no more;
And, as the Abbey's guardian roof
Might shield him, should the last be o'er,
There would she seek her first dread proof.
244
XXIX.
She turned her steed, and gave the rein,But checked awhile his course again,
As from by-way and near she heard
A slow wheel pressing the green-sward.
It bore, beneath the veiling shade,
Some wounded chieftain lowly laid.
In dread attention Florence sees,
As the light steals through parted trees,
The mute train turn the jutting bank,
(Where the high beech, of silver rind,
Caught the slant sunbeam ere it sank,)
And through the deepening forest wind.
The level radiance, shooting far
Within the shadows, touched that car;
And, glancing o'er a steely crest,
Flushed the wan visage in it pressed.
Too distant fell the slanting light
To bring the features forth to sight;
But played on falchions drawn around,
Guarding their chief o'er dangerous ground;
And gleamed upon the silver badge,
Of lofty servitude the pledge.
245
XXX.
Florence restrained the impulse strong,That would have forced her to that throng,
And Leonard hastened to explore
Some signal of the Chief they bore,
While she, within the deepest gloom,
Watched, as for sentence of her doom.
She marked, when he o'ertook the chief,
No gesture of surprise, or grief.
Soon, where the broader foliage shed
It's gloom o'er woodbanks high and steep,
Beyond the warriors' way there creep
A sandaled group with hooded head,
Silently from the umbrage deep.
This pilgrim-band might scarce be known,
Clad in their amice grey,
From tint of boughs with moss o'ergrown;
But that some clasp, or chainlet shone,
And ruddy tinge their faces own
Of the full Western ray.
XXXI.
As from the pass that shadowy trainSought Alban's sheltering aisles to gain,
246
Had thither brought Duke Richard's force,
Sudden, the wounded Chief they meet,
And, doubting, wondering, pitying, greet.
Leonard, while he drew near, o'erheard
The meeting Pilgrim's hailing word,
And question, on the spreading war,
And who was borne upon the car?
There lay Earl Stafford, wounded sore,
Whom Buckingham must long deplore:
Then prompt good wishes they exchange,
State of the roads and pass declare,
Give news of war, and counsel fair
How best the Pilgrims may arrange
Their distant way, through secret path,
To gain, ere night, some quiet hearth.
XXXII.
Leonard asked tidings of his lordFrom all who, round that bleeding car,
Halted with watchful eye and guard.
And various rumours of the war
They told, of chiefs slain, saved, or fled;
Clifford and Henry too were dead:
247
Baron Fitzharding? He was slain—
Some told, and some denied again.
Leonard, on mention of his death,
With eager look and trembling breath,
Straight to the Chief himself addressed
His question; who, howe'er distressed,
Upraised with patient courtesy
His languid head, for brief reply:—
“'Twas said, that, early in the strife,
Fitzharding fell, yielding his life
To Richard's sword; but then such tale
Should not as certainty prevail;
For those engaged in ardent fight
Know not who falls beyond their sight.”
XXXIII.
Ere yet the hasty talk had passed,Swelled on the calm a clarion's blast;
Then sudden and near shout thrilled high,
And pain and terror's mingled cry.
The Earl gave signal to proceed;
And wishes warm the conference close
248
The car then moved with feeble speed.
Fixed in dismay the Pilgrims stood,
Till Leonard, pointing through the wood,
Told where a little dim path wound,
Remote from Alban's fatal ground.
Then bent he with the fearful tale
To Florence. How may he prevail
To lead her home? How soothe her woes,
When his dire news he shall disclose?
XXXIV.
While she had watched his steps with doubt,She heard the faint pursuing shout,
And marked where trailed the distant rout.
But, even here, where all seemed lone,
The dreariness was not her own;
At times came nearer voice, and yell
Of wandering bands, or bugle's swell
In signal-call, or laughter loud,
Horrid to her, as voice from shroud!
Others there were who shunned the road,
Anxious to reach some safe abode,
249
For so the gestures seemed to tell
Of men, who, on the wild heath turned,
And pointing where the red gloom burned,
A moment paused, as if to say
“How dark the storm comes on our way!”
XXXV.
Sudden, while Silence slept around,Her courser listened, as if sound
Disturbed his watchful ear;
With feet outstretched and rising mane,
Averted head and eyes, that strain,
He gazed, in stiffening fear;
Then reared, and, with a restive bound,
He bore her from that fearful ground,
Ere she had aught perceived for dread,
Or sound had heard, that terror spread.
Vainly she tried to rein her steed;
So docile late, he keeps his speed,
Though now they meet a haggard group,
Who, with fierce gesture and wild whoop,
Would check his rapid flight;
250
To chase, when passed; but still in vain;
He bears her from their might.
XXXVI.
Pencil alone may trace such woeAs darkened faithful Leonard's brow,
When he had reached the oak's lone gloom
Where Florence dared to meet her doom,
And found her not! But, while around
He searched the close embowered ground,
A form terrific fixed his eyes.
Sheltered within the thickest shade,
There lay a pale and dying head:
In blood an armoured warrior lies!
It was his lowly, faltering groan!
His casque, where a stray light had shone,
And might give glimpse of ghastly face,
Betrayed him to the startled steed;
Who bore his mistress off at speed,
Ere she his cause of fear could trace.
XXXVII.
Ere Leonard, 'neath the darksome bough,Might the dead form, or feature, know,
251
Upon the rushing breeze went nigh.
A shriek it seemed—again he hears
The voice, that summoned all his fears.
Once more he listened, but the breeze
Rolled lonely o'er the bended trees,
And died, but, as it swelled again,
Brought on it's tide that note of pain!
Leonard, ere yet the plaint might close,
Turned his good steed the way it rose.
END OF THE FIFTH CANTO.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |