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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| VI. | CANTO VI. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE. |
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
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CANTO VI. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.
SCENE—WITHIN THE TOWN AND ABBEY OF ST. ALBAN'S.I.
Though now, within St. Alban's wall,Was hushed the turmoil of the day,
The crash of arms, the Chieftain's call,
The onset shout, the clarion's bray,
The stillness there was scarce less dread
Of those, who, looking on the dead,
In voice suppressed and trembling spake,
As if they feared the very sound,
Or, that it might disturb, or wake
The victims stretched around.
Yet, sometimes, 'mid this calm of fear,
Rose sudden cries of woe most drear
For friend or kinsman found.
But, though the slain filled all the ground,
253
Or close his eyes with pious love;
And, though amid that ghastly band
Lay chiefs and nobles of the land,
Yet might no man his pity prove;
Nor herald take his fearful course,
To know and name the new-made corpse.
II.
Earl Warwick ruled that woeful hour.What were compassion 'gainst his power?
How many, fallen upon that heap,
Warm and alive, but succourless,
Had there unnoticed found the sleep
His will might never more distress!
While he disputed, planned, arranged
Ambition's little dream of fame,
Or with his peers, or knights, exchanged
Some narrow points of rival claim.
And thus it went till even-tide;
And then the mitred fathers' cry,
That those who had, on each side, died,
Should rest with equal honours here,
Was coldly granted; while a tear
254
Who pleaded for such ministry.
The monks, too, asked an armed band
Might round their Abbey portals stand,
And yet another guard their way,
When they their pious dues should pay,
And step amid th' unhallowed troop,
Who o'er the dead and dying stoop.
III.
Then went the heralds on their round,Proclaiming forth the dead;
And, following on that blood-stained ground,
York's plundering lancemen sped.
And then, sustained by courage high,
Pale brothers of the monastery,
Solemn and still and sad went by;
Nor shrunk they, with an useless fear,
To do their awful office here.
IV.
Then straight were borne to Alban's aisle,Rescued by guard from wanton spoil,
Dead chief and prince and noble knight,
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To rest, all in their steely gear,
In consecrated chapel there;
Knights, who that very morning rode
Beneath the Abbey's tower,
And hardly owned the earth they trod,
Or any earthly power.
So light in hope, so high in pride,
Pranced they to battle, side by side:
Now under Death's dim flag enrolled,
Their transient story now all told;
Still, comrades, side by side, they go,
And side by side, though shrined in brass,
Must soon into oblivion pass;
Scarce word shall live, nor sign, to show
What spirit's dust sleeps there below.
V.
'Twas well Duke Richard granted guard;Much need had they of warlike ward—
Those hooded monks and lay;
Since armour rich of men they bear
The conquerors might strive to tear
From the dead corpse away.
256
Or written sign of Richard's word,
Deter from bloody fray.
And scarce the palls the Abbot sent
To shade the noble slain,
While through the open street they went,
Could hide bright casque, or chain.
Oft would a sullen murmur run
From lancemen rude the porch beside,
That the rich armour they had won
Should be preserved for chieftain's pride;
That they, who braved so much of toil,
Should share not in the hard-earned spoil.
They laughed in scorn, when it was said,
Such spoil would in the grave be laid,
Fit shrouding for a warrior dead.
Forty and nine of dead alone
Then bear they through the gate;
And many wounded men unknown,
Their pious care and pity own,
Too oft in dying state.
257
VI.
How mournful was the scene and dreadOf monks around those warriors dead,
Laid out in aisle and nave,
When, through the western window's height,
The red sun, ere he sunk in night,
His last sad farewell gave!
His beams a darkened glory threw,
Tinged with that gorgeous window's hue,
On every vault and arch on high;
Glanced on each secret gallery,
And half unveiled it's mystery;
While shrine and bier and form of woe
Lay sunk in shadows deep below.
Grand as the closing battle-hour,
Yet gloomy as it's fateful power,
Hovered that light above the slain,
Last light of their last day, and vain.
VII.
'Twas at this hour of twilight pale,When curfew-bell gave heavy wail,
A Pilgrim to the Abbey came
Brief rest and timely aid to claim.
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Thus did he to the warders state,
That, trusting to no bravery,
But to his honoured weed, his fate,
He passed alone the tented line
Of Richard's camp, his outer guard,
And the town barrier's watch and ward.
Now, when the Abbey-band asked sign,
And answer due to their watch-word,
He ne'er before their pass had heard.
Then other means he tried to gain
The warders, and tried not in vain;
His gift bestowed, he pressed his way,
Where dim the convent portal lay.
VIII.
Lofty and dark that porch arose,By fits the vaulting shown,
When the tossed torch a red flash throws
O'er thick-ribbed arch and crowning rose,
And hooded face of carved stone,
While passed the dead and dying through.
There watched the Pilgrim, hid from view,
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Whence he might note what corpse they bear;
He watched, with fixed and tearless eye,
The warrior's death-march crowding by.
IX.
Under the gloom of portal door,On bier and shield while soldiers bore
The hopeless wounded and the dead,
Pale monks with lifted torches led,
And Abbey-knights in silence ward;
Following came lancemen, as rear-guard.
The dying forms, then passing by,
Showed every shade of misery,
Mingling with warlike pageantry.
Some lay in quilted brigandine,
Others in polished armour shine,
And some in surcoat blazoned high.
Some were in 'bossed and damasked steel,
With threatening crest and plumed head;
These the closed helmet-bars conceal.
On others the raised vizor shed
A shade athwart the eyes more dread
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And some there were, whose shroud-like mail,
Binding the chin and forehead pale,
Would all the dying look disclose!
O! that poor look, that sinking eye,
When glanced a light from torch on high,
Held by some mute o'erbending monk,
Of ghastly air and visage shrunk;
Whose wanness, though of different hue
From his, that lay beneath his view,
Yet, seen beside the living tint
Of men, who bore the corpse away,
Seemed but a fleeting shadowy hint
Of one, who had lived yesterday,
As with still step he passed along
The wounded and the dying throng.
X.
Once, as the grave's dark guests pass by,The Pilgrim's sad and bursting sigh
Betrayed him in that shaded nook;
And, as the sound fell on the ear
Of monk, attendant on the bier,
He raised his torch around to look.
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The studded gates, long battle-proof,
The low-browed door and turret-stair,
And not the dark weed resting there.
And, had he spied that pilgrim-weed,
The form beneath he might not read,
Nor guess the world there hid, the fears,
The trembling thought, that sees and hears,
In every shape, in every sound,
Image, or hint of grief profound;
The pang, that seeks the worst to know,
Yet shrinks, and shuns the meeting woe,
Affection's pang, o'er-watching care,
And, sickness of the heart! despair.
Yes; it was Florence there who stood,
Watching each passing corpse,
And waiting till a firmer mood
Might bear her on her course.
XI.
And, when the mingled crowd was passedOf living and of dead,
And the great portal, closed so fast,
Echoed no sound of dread,
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The Abbey-court—and cloister traced
And hall and chamber's gloom,
Forsaken gallery, dim stair,
Remote from steps of ceaseless care,
Fast thronging round the tomb.
No voice through stillness stole, no sound
Through all the widely vacant round.
Door after door, in long display,
Still led where distant chambers lay,
Shown by fixed lamp, or taper's ray.
XII.
By such ray, trembling on the gloom,She passed through many a vaulted room;
In one she paused, flung back her hood,
And, with an eager frenzy, viewed
What, silent, in the centre stood.
The board, that feasted living guest,
Behold! was now the dead man's rest!
For banquet-cloth—a winding sheet!
That, lifted by the face and feet,
Veiled, yet made known, some form of death,
Laid out, unwatched, unwept, beneath!
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Terror and Pity wound his corpse,
But Sorrow bends not by his bier!
Though now, perchance, her steps are near.
XIII.
A shuddering instinct yet withheldFlorence from seeking, who was veiled;
And even the dread uncertainty
Whose countenance she here might see—
Even this seemed momentary shield
From truth, that might be there revealed.
With eyes fixed on that winding shroud,
Powerless she stood beside the dead;
Came o'er her sight a misty cloud;
Through all her frame a tremour spread;
A stillness of the heart—a trance
Held her, like statue in advance;
One hand just raised to lift the veil,
But checked, as life itself must fail,
If one loved face should there lie pale.
A moment passed—she raised the shroud,
Fell o'er her sight a darker cloud!
264
But sunk beside the Warrior's bier.
There by a lay-monk was she found,
When passing on his wonted round;
There, like a broken lily, laid
Half-hid, within her pilgrim-shade;
And thence, with hopeless care, conveyed.
XIV.
Though closed the Abbey's outer gate,Still, through low porch and postern-door,
Pikemen the dead and dying bore
To the near aisles, where monks await,
And watch around th' expiring chief,
With aiding pity, silent grief;
And every form of horror view,
Yet calm their duteous task pursue.
Clement, the Monk, was, on this night,
Shrine-watcher on the southern aisle,
Pacing o'er brass-bound graves the while,
By the pale, sickly, waning light
Of yellow tapers, ranged in state
O'er tombs of the departed great.
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No victim of the war was laid;
Yet, as with slow and heavy tread
Passed on the bearers of the dead,
Clement a prayer of requiem said.
XV.
From these new relics of War's rageTurning, it did his pain assuage
To look on marble sepulchre,
And ponder Latin register
Of those, who ruled here in past age.
He thought of Frederick the Bold,
Laid out in monumental brass,
Who, casting off his cope of gold,
Armed at all points stood in the pass,
When Norman William came of old;
And, sprung himself from royal race,
(Canute, the Dane, spoke in his vein)
Defied the Conqueror to his face.
Clement now almost saw his form—
That warlike Abbot, rising dim
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Of battle, then approaching him;
And could have thought his armour's gleam
Did through the chancel-shadows stream;
Nay that his very shape stood there,
With face all haggard, wan and spare,
And plumage staring o'er his crest,
As if wild horror it expressed.
XVI.
Was this a vision that he viewed,Wrought by o'erwatching of the mind?
It seemed along the shade to wind,
And rest in thoughtful attitude.
All in the aisle was lone and still,
But from the distant nave a thrill,
A murmur deep and stifled broke;
Where monks, as they the dead laid out,
In voice of strange lamenting spoke,
As if half fearing, half devout.
Clement, the way that moaning came,
One moment turned his eye;
What was it shook his lofty frame?
What wrung from him that sigh?
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Deep rapt awhile in thoughtful mood;—
When able to lift up his mien,
On the choir-step that vision stood,
That unknown shade, so dimly seen.
So woe-begone and stern it's look,
The Monk with sudden terror shook.
He signed himself, and passed the way
Where other shrine-watch yet might stay.
XVII.
It waved him back with lofty sign,Then trod the aisle alone,
In stately step, to Catherine's shrine,
And spoke in stifled tone.
But Clement, still o'ercome with dread,
Before that warlike image fled.
It was no phantom that stood there,
But a true knight of Lancaster;
Who, 'mid a crowd of monks, that bore
A warrior through St. Mary's door,
Had here a dreadful refuge ta'en
Among the dying and the slain.
268
That he might here in shelter be,
Having escaped, at midnight hour,
From those, who watched around this tower.
XVIII.
The Monk, well pleased with fear to part,And aid Lancastrian Knight distressed,
Welcomed the stranger to his heart,
And freely granted all his quest.
He pointed to a little stair
Wound upward o'er the transept there;
He pointed, but they heard, remote,
Dull, measured footsteps fall,
And saw through Mary's portal float
Slowly, a sable pall.
Distant, upon the aisle it turned,
Where Gloucester's chantry-tapers burned.
The stranger stood, with brow intent
Upon that mournful vision bent:
So pale and still, though stern, his look,
Image he seemed, forsook of life,
But that his cresting plumage shook,
And told of passion's strife.
269
While on the bearers drew,
Till Clement roused him from his mood,
And led him from their view.
XIX.
Within a little secret doorOf this side aisle, they now explore
A stair, that goes within the wall
To galleries on high;
These run behind close arcades small
Along the transept nigh.
The arches round, the pillars short,
(With capitals uncarved and square,)
Changing each single arch to pair,
Seem by rude hand of Saxon wrought,
Or Norman William's earliest train:
So massy is their shape and plain.
Hid in these galleries, unknown,
A stranger long might be,
Yet on the shrines and tombs look down,
And all there passing see.
Such channels run, in double tier,
Through every aisle and transept here;
270
And bendings of this mystic ground,
But, broke by window, arch, or pier,
The narrow way is often found.
XX.
Within that little secret door,A few steps of the Choir before,
Clement the mournful stranger led,
While passed, upon his funeral bed,
Unwept, unknown, that warrior dead.
The pall had shifted from it's hold,
And showed a casque of steel and gold,
A lion passant crest;
And, just beneath the vizor raised,
The eyes, for ever fixed and glazed,
A warrior's death confessed.
Two men-at-arms stepped slowly near
A Poursuivant, before the bier;
And, as they passed, the Knight could hear
The watch-monk, Clement, feebly say,
“Who passes to his grave, I pray.”
271
Save “Live King Henry! Henry live!—”
The Knight then, in his secret cell,
No longer might his feelings quell;
But stepped upon the aisle to learn,
What friend or comrade he must mourn.
XXI.
The bier had passed away the while,The herald at it's side,
And, as he turned upon the aisle,
Where nave and choir divide,
The stranger did Portcullis know,
And princely Somerset laid low.
With bended head and downward eye,
He mused in grief to see
The Chief so oft of victory,
Whom last he viewed 'mid banners high
And trumpets' pride and shout of joy.
While thus the warrior dwelt in thought,
The Monk, respectful of his pain,
No word of consolation sought,
Impertinent and vain;
272
And look of gentle sympathy:
Till the Knight, fearing further stay,
Turned round and signed the Monk away;
And Clement led him up the flight,
That opened on the gallery height.
XXII.
The beams, that rose from shrine and tomb,Broke on that stair-flight's distant gloom,
As now the Knight and Monk ascend;
And, seen beyond low arches there,
Tall fretted windows rose in air,
And with the transept-shadows blend
Dim form of warrior and of saint,
Traced gloomily by moonbeam faint.
These words the Monk at parting gave,
“Sir Knight, whatever you may see
Within this hidden gallery,
Sir Knight, be watchful, mute, and brave;
The way is little known,
And you are safe from human ill
273
“I leave you not alone!”
The Stranger yielded to his will,
But answer made he none.
Yet much he mused on the dark word,
That might some inward hint afford
Of those he feared, this night, to see
Changed by Death's awful mystery.
XXIII.
Within the pillared arch, unseen,He stood and looked beneath;
Transept and aisle lay deep between
This angle and the Nave's long scene
Of suffering and death.
Obscure in that far distance, lay
This scene of mortal misery;
And, where tall arches rose,
Each arch, discovering the way
To what beyond might passing be,
Did some dread group disclose.
Pale phantoms only seemed to glide
Among the torches there,
274
In busy, silent care:
Unseen the deathly form below,
Unseen the pale, reflected woe
On miens, that each woe share;
The sable cowl appeared alone,
Or glimpse of helm, or corslet, shown
By the red torch's glare.
XXI.
Distinct, no sound arose, nor wordAlong the vaults and arches spread,
Save that low murmur, shrill and dread,
Which in the Choir the Warrior heard;
While still the heavy march, afar,
Brought on new victims of the war.
Down the long south aisle swept his eye,
Upon whose verge two hermits lie;
Athwart that aisle, in farthest gloom,
The frequent torch was seen to glide,
Borne by the heralds of the tomb;
And, hurrying to the cloister-side,
Lay-monks oft bore upon the bier,
275
Bodies where life might yet abide.
And, ever as the Knight beheld
Those mournful shadows go,
Terror and high impatience swelled,
The fate of friends to know.
XXV.
Then sadly he withdrew his eyeFrom scene of Death's dark pageantry,
Shaped out in garb so strange,
And bent it on the view below,
The southern transept's gorgeous show,
In long and ordered range
Of chantry, chapel, and of shrine,
Where lights for ever were to shine,
And priests for ever—ever pray
For soul of those, whose mortal clay
Within the still, cold marble lay.
On high, the broad round arches rose,
That prop the central tower,
Where, north and south, the long roof goes,
That either transept grandly shows
In full perspective power.
276
Interminable to the sight.
While rose the massy piers to view,
The distant torch their shadows threw
Broad, dark, and far around.
Like Warders o'er this gloomy ground,
Those Norman pillars stood and frowned.
XXVI.
On either side, in transept-wall,Where rise four pointed arches small,
Now silent, dark and lone,
Four dedicated chapels lay,
Receding from the open way,
Whence rose due orison.
Tapers beamed on each altar there,
'Mid image carved and picture fair.
In one the priest sang nightly prayer
For Tynemouth's Prior, Delamere,
Once ruler of the Abbey here.
Not that within this chapel's shade,
His coffined bones were ever laid;
But in the chancel, graved on brass,
His stately form, with mitred head,
277
Where he such happy hours did pass.
Calm is the countenance and wise,
With lids, that shade the thoughtful eyes.
So exquisite the graven plate,
So fine the form, so old the state,
Oh! may it long be spared the fate
Of other sad memorials near,
Torn ruthlessly from reverend bier
Of abbot, knight, of prince and peer.
XXVII.
As now the Stranger caught some strain,Memorial of the newly slain,
Or heard the tender notes that plead
For spirit freed from mortal weed,
Pity and grief his eyes oppressed,
And tears fell on his warrior breast;
Such requiem might his father need!
He turned him from the moving strain,
And paced the gallery dim again;
With quick unequal step he paced,
And oft that gallery retraced.
278
Another pathway, low and small,
Winding within the eastward wall,
Seemed far away to bend.
END OF THE SIXTH CANTO.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |