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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| VII. | CANTO VII. SCENE IN THE MONASTERY. |
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 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
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CANTO VII. SCENE IN THE MONASTERY.
I.
The Warrior stood, and marvelled whereThe secret way he spied might go,
Whether to turret high in air,
Or to some penance-cell below;
When, as he looked, a beam of light
Dawned through the gallery's long night.
He passed upon that silent way,
And came where many a darting ray
Through the broad Saxon mouldings stray
Of a deep, jealous door,
With massy iron studded o'er.
Unclosed it stood, yet nought between
Of cell, or winding stair was seen.
280
II.
He paused, and anxious bent his head,For a faint wailing seemed to rise,
Like that of mourner o'er the dead:
He would not mourner's tears surprise.
But soon the murmur died remote,
Nor any sounds on silence float.
It might have come from hearse of death,
In chancel-aisle, unseen, beneath.
He passed the jealous Saxon door,
And stepped upon a covered floor!
Within appeared a chamber small,
Crowned with a vaulting, rich and tall,
With slender central staff for stay,
Whence the traced branch of leaf and flower
Spread, like a shadowing summer-bower,
Where evening's slant beams stray.
III.
A velvet-curtain, drawn aside,Showed bay-recess, of fretwork pride,
Where, on the window's stately brow,
Vision of angels strove to glow,
As waiting orison below;
281
And consecrated tapers shone,
That such poor feeble homage paid,
As mortals pay by forms alone.
Beneath that curtain's sweeping fold
Were ancient reliques, set in gold;
And, open on the altar, see
A missal, gold and velvet bound,
And on the step, just pressed by knee,
A cushion 'broidered round.
The down had not regained it's sheen,
Where the low bended knee had been,
Yet there no living step was seen.
IV.
The moon kept her still watch on high,'Mid surges of a stormy sky;
And, on the fretted window's pane,
Illumined the rich pencilled stain
Of groups, that wake and die,
As sweeps the varying shadow by.
Now, as those angel-forms appear
And vanish in the shaded air,
282
Some guardian spirit of the place.
V.
A moment stood the Knight to gazeUpon this chapel's circling bound;
The blazoned walls showed helpful phrase,
And the high scenes of holy ground.
O'er an arched door, that caught his view,
St. Andrew's shielded sign he knew,
Carved on the stone, and, close beside,
This Abbey's mitre-crest of pride,
Another shield, with wheat-sheaf, near,
Spelt of the Abbot ruling here,
Wheathampstede of the lengthened days.
A moment stood the Knight, to gaze
Upon the bending form above,
As watchful in its fretted cove,
The sainted bishop—Bishop Blaize.
VI.
Another form, of air serene,Above the Saxon door was seen:
Saint Dunstan, he, whose harp all lone
Sounded in such celestial tone,
283
Whom mortal eyes may not perceive.
With careful pause the Stranger viewed
That Saint's enraptured attitude.
A crystal lamp, suspended high,
Touched with keen light his upward eye;
As if a beam of heavenly day
Fell, while he watched a seraph's way,
And listened, in mute ecstasy
The slow ascending strains decay.
So fine the passion of his eye,
It seemed to speak both tear and sigh;
And the fallen drop upon his cheek
Spoke more than words themselves may speak.
VII.
He passed the door with cautious tread;It to a vaulted chamber led,
With storied tapestry dressed around;
A screen of carved oak was it's bound.
In lofty oriel, light and rich,
O'ercanopied, like mural niche,
King Offa, as the moonbeams glide,
Glimmered, in pall of purple pride.
284
Displayed, in bright and varied stain,
Th' allusive arms, or cognizance,
Of Abbots, long departed thence.
This bay looked on the platform green
Of Abbot's cloister, that was seen
In streamy light and slanting shade,
By the tall transept's turret made.
From it's bowed roof a silver light
Hung, and a trembling radiance shed
O'er the worn brow and hoary head
(With snow of seventy winters white)
Of a lone form, that sat beneath
Pallid and still, as shape of death.
The Abbot, in his mitred chair,
Wearied with grief and watch, slept there.
And, from such deep and kind repose,
Such seeming peace of heart as now
Beams blessedness around his brow,
Oh! must he wake to former woes?
VIII.
To the armed Knight who near him stood,He seemed a Saint in tranced mood,
285
And left below the pallid clay
Impressed with sign of heavenly bliss,
Instead of mortal happiness.
On the high desk beside him lay
The blessed Sriptures, shown by light
Of waxen tapers, branching there—
The study, that had closed his day,
And calmed the terrors of the night
With heavenward hope and heart-felt prayer.
His crown of earthly honour stood
Behind him, and a purple hood
Half shrouded, in it's stead, the snow
That slept, like moonlight, on his brow:
His vest and tunicle of gold,
His ample train of graceful fold,
And all the pomp, that had arrayed
His presence, when the King was by,
Now dropped as cumbrous pageantry;
He wore his robe of evening-shade.
IX.
The Stranger, careful, watched this vest;Scarce breathed the sigh, that heaved his breast,
286
That, on his first approach, he clasped;
Nor did his lifted step advance,
Lest any sound might break the trance,
That spread it's blessing veil of peace
Upon the sorrows of that face.
So rapt the Warrior stood and still,
His very plume obeyed his will,
Nor waved, nor trembled on the air,
But watched, like mourning honours, there.
X.
Changed were sleep's soothing visions now;A frown shot o'er the father's brow.
He breathed a deep, yet feeble moan,
As if his dreams had sorrow known;
And shuddering with the muttered tone,
The fancied grief, his senses own,
He starts. A knight in armour there!
In silence by his sleeping chair!
How has he passed, unheard, unseen,
By those, who wait without the screen—
The page and chaplain waiting there?
An armed knight before his chair!
287
XI.
He gazed, with startled, anxious eye,Yet marked, as soared the plume on high,
The mimic red-rose, blooming by,
And, where the vizor overspread
Eyes, whose keen fire, through Pity's tear,
A softened, trembling lustre shed,
(As stars through fleecy clouds appear.)
By that red-rose and gentle tear
He knew a knight of Lancaster;
And by that glance, those features bold,
That gallant air, that warlike mould,
He knew his race and lineage old;
And, while his knee the Knight had bent,
And reverently, with humble head,
Craved shelter in his Abbey's nave,
Meek from his chair the Father leant,
And, with spread hands, his blessing gave
And words of kindly import said.
“Baron Fitzharding! welcome here.—”
The Abbot paused in generous fear.
“Welcome! alas! that may not be,
In lodgment with your enemy.
288
Where you may rue Duke Richard's power;
For here, this night, his court he keeps,
While royal Henry captive sleeps.”
XII.
Now, when he heard his King was there,Fitzharding all things well could dare,
To see and greet his royal lord.
But soon the Father's solemn word
Assured him the attempt were vain.
Duke Richard's guard and courtier-train
So closely hemmed the conquered King,
That such adventure might even bring
Death on himself, and dread to all
Sheltered within the Abbey wall.
Nay, if the Baron here were seen,
Request and bribe might fail to screen
From Richard's sudden rage the life,
Sought by him foremost in the strife.
XIII.
Fitzharding felt a flush o'erspreadHis cheek—and sternly raised his head,
289
His life from him he sought in field;
But checked his speech, and quelled his pride,
While he stood by the Abbot's side.
The Father spoke with pitying sigh,
“In secret cell you safe may lie
Till the dark storm has passed by;
And such a shrouding cell is nigh,
But must be sought without delay,
For even here 'twere death to stay.”
And, while he spoke, he looked behind
And listened, in his chair reclined—
'Twas but the hollow moaning wind.
And then he asked by what dark way
The Knight this chamber did essay?
XIV.
Again a sound; and now was heardA heavy step draw nigh;
He left unsaid th' attempted word,
And backward turned his eye,
Where, distant, stretched the oaken screen
And paler grew his pallid cheek,
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Of one without—unseen.
He signed Fitzharding to depart
And wait within, till signal made:
But the firm Warrior's swelling heart,
His lingering footstep stayed.
XV.
From the carved screen and ante-roomA Monk, with countenance of gloom,
Came forth with feeble pace and slow,
With frequent pause and stated bow;
The shaven circlet on his head
No scapulary dark o'erspread,
Nor dimmed the pale lines on his brow,
Or the faint downcast eye below;
Yet, as he came with sullen tread,
No word of fear or hope he said,
Till he had reached the Father's chair,
And bent him low in reverence there.
Then faint he spoke—“Duke Richard sends;
He my Lord Abbot's will attends.”
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XVI.
Scarce had he said, when martial stride,Quick, firm, and true, was heard without;
A page the folded door threw wide,
And then arose a distant shout
Of men exulting in their choice
From court beyond; and nearer voice
Affecting to restrain the cheer,
As ill-timed and unseemly here;
Then steps again, and ring of steel
From chainlet and from armed heel.
That voice burst on Fitzharding near,
Like trumpet on the charger's ear.
And even the Abbot's warning glance
Might scarce restrain the Knight's advance;
Till the pale Father waved his hand
With look of absolute command,
And pointed whither he should go;
So panted he to meet the foe,
Who held his royal master low.
No time for speech, or word, of grace;
So near and rapid was the pace,
292
Ere the Duke trod the Abbot's floor.
Such present haste became him well,
Whose lengthened councils and debate
So long had made the Father wait,
And kept him from his nightly cell
Beyond the hour himself had named,
For urging rights himself had claimed.
XVII.
Now, where small Gothic window drewIt's open tracery in the wall;
Fitzharding, all unseen, might view
Duke Richard in the Abbot's hall;
And, with stern interest, survey
How he had borne the battle-day:—
He, whom, last seen in narrow space,
Fitzharding challenged face to face;
And surely had him prisoner made,
But for his henchmen's sudden aid.
Now by the Abbot's quiet chair
He sat, with proud yet troubled air;
His plume and casque were laid aside,
For lighter cap, of crimson pride,
293
Dark was his eye, and flushed his brow:
Ill pleased he seemed, though conqueror,
As if but loftier sufferer;
And weariness his face o'erspread.
Rough was each word, and hoarse, he said;
For loud command, debate and fray
Had worn his voice, through that long day.
XVIII.
He came to claim the Abbot's word,That he would not in secrecy
Shield a Lancastrian enemy;
And some were even there, he heard,—
Some, he well knew, were in these walls,
Ready anew to stir up brawls:
Each such he claimed for prisoner;
They had provoked the cruel war.
The Abbot, mild, yet firm, replied,—
The Church must shelter those, who sought
For sanctuary at her side;
Not mock the laws she always taught.
He would not, dared not break her laws,
However high the temporal cause.
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Here must they rest, unsought, unseen.
He craved the Duke would not profane
The rights his duty must maintain.
XIX.
Richard gave prompt and brief reply,That lightly he would ne'er defy
The Church's right of sanctuary;
But these were times when such Church law
Would loose the chain, that held in awe
The guilty and the dangerous man.
He would not answer for the end,
How strict soe'er his orders ran,
If his men found an enemy
Were screened in aisle or monastery;
Then must the Church herself defend!
'Twere better silently to yield,
For once, the sanctuary's shield,
And point where foes might lie concealed;
Lest blood the Abbey-pavement stain,
And all the Church's guard were vain.
295
XX.
He paused—the Father silent sate,Reluctant to provoke debate,
Though scornful of Duke Richard's threat;
And, when his look the threatener's met,
His trembling limbs confessed his ire,
And, his eyes flashed with transient fire,
That glowed an instant on his cheek,
And thus his thronging thoughts might speak;
“If blood on sacred ground be shed,
The punishment is sure and dread.”
XXI.
The prudent Abbot ceased awhile,And calmed his eye and smoothed his brow;
For he had seen Duke Richard's smile—
Dark smile of scorn! portending woe.
“I will not vouch my soldiers' grace,
No, not in Alban's chariest place!
His very shrine may be profaned;
His very shroud with gore be stained:
Yield then my enemies in peace,
And then all fear and care may cease.”
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XXII.
The Father, rising from his chair,In horror of Duke Richard's speech,
And heedless of such fear or care,
Disdained all words, that would beseech;
And thus he said, “An instant doom
Falls on the wretch, if such there be,
Who violates St. Alban's tomb,
Or trespasses on sanctuary!
Of all St. Alban's sons, not one
But would avenge his Saint, or die,
And triumph in such glory won,
And yield his life without a sigh!
And, for the rest, if soldier dare
Rive private door or private stair,
Or climb, in sordid search of prey,—
For the last Ban let him prepare,
The Ban I shudder but to say!
Think you, my lord, I will betray
My church, or break her smallest law?
Her thunders still her foes shall awe.
To her high power then, yield the sway,
The power, that even kings obey!
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With proud submission guard her bound.”
XXIII.
Faintness came o'er the Father's face;He paused; then said with milder grace,
“My lord, you granted Abbey-guard;
Give us not mockery for ward.—
Now, spare my age and wearied state;
Spare me yet longer-drawn debate.”
XXIV.
“Lord Abbot! if, within your walls,By monkish hand one soldier falls,
Blood will o'erflow your aisles, your halls:
Revenge will then be soldiers' food!”
Here Richard curbed his angry mood;
Then coldly said “he would not keep
The Father from his timely sleep.
Doubtless the guard would still prove good,
While it was viewed with gratitude;
But certain chiefs, whom he would name,
It was his firm resolve to claim:
298
And sheltered 'neath his Abbey's roof:
Those dangerous men must be resigned,
As the good monks would favour find.”
XXV.
Fitzharding, in the chapel near,When he Duke Richard's lofty word,
Demanding certain chieftains, heard,
Felt shuddering dread for kinsman dear.
Breathless attention now he paid
To hear each claim, that Richard made.
At first, as every name went by,
This was the Father's prompt reply,
“He knew not that such Chief was here;
He might be—laid upon his bier.”
Duke Richard then Earl D'Arcy named,
And the Knight's sire for prisoner claimed.
The Abbot paused; then faltering said,
“He lies within the Abbey—dead!”
XXVI.
In sudden shock of grief, the sonClasped his strong gauntlet hands on high,
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Who every fortune would defy.
Duke Richard turned a distant glance;
His looks his true surmise reveal;
“Methought I heard the clash of steel!”
That voice recalled the Knight to sense;
He checked the footstep in advance.
Ill might his dread the Abbot hide,
Or the Duke's searching eye abide,
As sternly from his chair he rose
The lurking danger to expose:—
“I pray—Lord Abbot—pardon me,
If I suspect an enemy.”—
“My Lord, no enemy is near,
Whom you have any cause to fear.
Pass not into my private cell,
Forbear, my Lord!—it were not well.”
The Abbot's voice with terror shook,
But prudently he ruled his look.
XXVII.
Duke Richard paused, and turned away,Awed partly by this just reproof;
But he had motives, too, aloof
300
For yielding to the Abbot's sway.
“This sudden crash of hidden arms,”
He said, “might justify alarms.”—
“No hidden arms are here, my lord;
And trust, I pray, my solemn word;”
(The Abbot spoke to be o'erheard)
“Who first that sacred ground assails,
Be he or enemy or friend,
On him the Ban of Church prevails;
And he beneath that scourge shall bend.”
XXVIII.
Slowly the Duke resumed his chair,“'Tis well!” he said; “so let it fare;
For that same chief, whom last I named,
In this day's fatal business famed—
For him, he rests within your wall,
But not beneath the funeral pall;
He lives within your Abbey gate;
In chamber near, perchance, may wait.”—
He viewed the chapel-door, and frowned,
Where the son sheltered in it's bound,
301
Those words of unmeant comfort hears.
XXIX.
Vainly the Father might denySuch Chief were here in sanctuary;
As vainly Richard spoke of proof,
That he now lived beneath this roof.
The Abbot told of monks, who viewed
The body stretched upon a bier,
And borne through aisle and chancel near;
Such solemn proof could not delude!
The corpse passed Abbot Hugo's tomb,
At evening-bell, through twilight gloom,
While chantry-priests bewailed his doom!
XXX.
These words o'erheard, swift to the heartOf the pale son their poison dart.
But Richard's accents, once again,
Assuaged the keenness of his pain:
He almost loved his direst foe,
Who thus threw hope upon his woe:
“How might they view,” Duke Richard said,
302
If o'er it evening-gloom were spread?”—
The Abbot sadly smiled, and sighed,
And falteringly, again replied:
“The tapers on that chantry-shrine,
As solemn witnesses, did shine
Full on the dead man's brow;
So those who chaunted requiem, know.”
XXXI.
Duke Richard said, “That might not be.He had himself strange certainty—
Strange tale!—he would not farther speak
Of that, which made the bravest weak,
Of Superstition's gloomy spell;
But clear and simple fact would tell.”
And then he spoke of “certain men,
Pikemen, on guard within the porch,
(The curfew-bell was sounding then)
Who saw that Knight, in arms all plain,
March by and pass beneath the arch,
Or saw him rather run than march,—
They saw him by their own watch-torch!
303
Yet heard they not his iron tread,
Though clad in arms from heel to head.
It might be that he stepped so light
To 'scape unknown the pikemen's sight.
They did not challenge him, 'twas true;
But he passed clearly to their view.
His vizor up, his beaver down,
Disclosed the fixtness of his frown;
Yet could they not his face have seen,
Like ghastly shade,” they said, “between,
(Richard gave smile of satire keen)
But that a warder dropped his pike,
Which he might think just raised to strike,
And, as he turned a sudden glance,
Seeming to couch his demi-lance,
Their torch flashed full upon his brow,
And showed the frowning eye below.
Yet checked they not his path, through dread
Of thwarting spirit of the dead!
But, fixed by terror of his eye,
Watched him in warlike march pass by.
304
Of spectre of a warrior cold.
Such strange and wayward humours sway
Men, who dread nought, on battle day!”
XXXII.
He ceased, while grave the Abbot sate,As pondering on some tale of fate;
And on his face an awful thrill
Spoke, more than words, some dread of ill.
Duke Richard felt that thrilling look;
His mind with wondering doubt was shook;
And, though he scorned each monkish spell,
A secret dread he might not quell
Lay on his soul, like sullen gloom
On hills, ere yet the storm is come.
He spoke not; all was still around
In the wide chamber's dusky bound,—
So still, you might have heard the sound,
Far off and doubtful to the ear,
Of that low, sullen thunder growl,
From clouds, that on th' horizon scowl—
The herald of the storm's career!—
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Of faint lament from distant aisle;
Or step, in secret gallery,
Stealing upon some deed of guile;
Or whisper in the Chapel nigh
Of the lone Knight's heavy sigh.
XXXIII.
Still mused the Sire in deepest thought,His look with fearful meaning fraught.
“'Twas strange!” (at length he raised his face)
Such warlike port and silent pace!
And strange that soldiers at a glance
Should stand appalled, nor step advance
To thwart a living warrior,
From whom in fight they would not stir.”
He mused again, with brow intent;
While Richard, silent, forward bent.
The Father raised not up his head,
While, pausing oft, he slowly said,
“If such an image they have seen,
I guess it wore not earthly mien.
It might be spirit lingering near
It's mortal corpse, borne on the bier.
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Tended to make the tale seem true.
That the guard failed to summon, straight,
Some reverend priest to th' Abbey gate
I marvel much: for such good men
Were gathered round the wounded then,
Whose presence and whose single word
Had stronger proved than pike or sword.”
XXXIV.
Duke Richard checked a scornful smile,And said, with meaning fraught with guile,
“Earl D'Arcy lives; his son, perchance,
May rest here in some mortal trance,
And, by a strong similitude,
Have caused his semblance to delude.
But, if he live—that younger Knight,
Who sought me in this morning's fight,
Baron Fitzharding I would claim,
Though fire and sword should thwart my aim.
Nay, wife or kinsman I would take,
Till he surrendered for their sake!”
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XXXV.
“It could not be such knight, my Lord—”The Abbot checked his thoughtless word,
And paused confused; then tried to speak
While sudden crimson flushed his cheek;
And, when again he raised his brow,
He met Duke Richard's searching glance,
Fixed, watchful, o'er his silent trance,
And reading all his fears might show.
“That knight,” said Richard, “in the fray,
I drove in headlong flight away—”
Guileful he spoke—“He fled my blow,
And fell by other hand, they say.”
Again the Duke his dark eye bent
Upon the Abbot's face, intent.
XXXVI.
But, ere the Father might reply,The Baron's step in Chapel nigh
Confirmed his fearful agony.
Not tamely could Fitzharding hear
Richard's false tales of flight and fear.
His heart and every nerve throbbed high
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Of yielding to so foul a stain.
He turned toward the chamber-door
(So, for a moment, did he err)
To dare his artful slanderer,
And grasped his sword—but checked his rage;
For shall the Father's chilling age
Be shocked with view of human gore,
Shed—even his feeble sight before?
And—for himself—was this a time
To seek a contest, when no crime
Could seem so great as victory,
Or rouse such fell malignity,
Or place him in such jeopardy?
XXXVII.
But Richard had that footstep heard,And, while his eye with anger burned,
He sternly to the Abbot turned,
And claimed again his solemn word,
Truly and promptly now to tell
What footstep paced within his cell.
He guessed that place did foe conceal,
For surely it was foot of steel.
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So did the thought his rage provoke.
The Father, that the Knight might hear,
Spoke loud—“My Lord, upon this ground
You have not enemy to fear;
No man so desperate may be found
To threaten life, or draw blood here.”
The Duke's dark aspect proved too well
He read the Abbot's warning speech,
And that he judged within the cell
An enemy lay in his reach.
He answered, “Ere from hence I go,
You must yourself, Lord Abbot, show
Who clad in arms, what warrior bold,
Makes a monk's cell his secret hold.
He bears, perchance, some noble name,
And has achieved high deeds of fame;
Yet—him for prisoner I claim!”
XXXVIII.
While to these words his taunting eyeGave double point and energy,
He rose, and near the Chapel drew;
But with deliberate step he went,
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The Abbot for his full consent;
And signed, that he should lead the way,
And from his cell dislodge the prey.
The Father, seeing it were vain
Longer the struggle to maintain,
Sought only to ward off the blow,
And warn the sheltered Knight to go.
Toward the chapel, lingering slow,
He paced, and spoke in lofty tone
Duke Richard's name, and would alone
Have passed; but this increased distrust,
And Richard, straight, the portal burst!
XXXIX.
All sullenly he gazed aroundThe pillared Chapel's lighted bound;
A gloomy fire flashed in his eye,
The lightning of a stormy sky;
Knight, priest, nor warrior, there was found.
But, when he saw St. Dunstan's door,
He strode athwart the solid floor;
And, with a firm, impatient grasp,
Struggled to force the iron-clasp.
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The Saxon door held faithful ward.
XL.
The Abbot, now no more subduedBy terrors for the Knight,
Quickly regained his tranquil mood,
And stood upon his right
Of undisturbed possession there,
Whether of chamber, cell, or stair.
He grieved intrusive step to see,
Profane his private sanctuary.
Duke Richard coldly said, “'Twas plain
His enemies had not been thought
That sanctuary to profane,
Or here they had not refuge sought.”
XLI.
He spoke; and pointed to the swordThe Knight had laid, with pious word,
Upon the altar nigh,
When he had there himself resigned,
Where only he could comfort find,
And balm for misery!
312
Before the Abbot, in sure proof
He there had screened some enemy;
That sword the Father might not see
But with a mingled agony
Of gratitude, respect and fear,
For him, who was, alas! too near.
XLII.
With saintly smile the Abbot viewedThis offering of a mind subdued;
Duke Richard, in amazement, frowned,
And every generous thought disowned.
Some way he hoped to find, ere long,
Might reach those hid within these walls,
Whose shelter he thought bitter wrong.
“Lord Abbot! whatsoe'er befalls,
Blame not the deeds may hence ensue;
These deeds have been provoked by you!”
XLIII.
With haughty eye and cheek, that burned,Straight to the Abbot's hall he turned,
Bearing the falchion of his foe,
While vengeance dark sat on his brow.
313
Stately the Abbot stood and grave,
Nor sought, by look, or argument,
To win his passions to relent.
And, as he drew near to the screen,
The Abbot's page, with humble mien,
Brought message brief from Warwick's lord,—
Required Duke Richard's present word
On subject high, that might not wait;—
The board were sitting in debate.
XLIV.
Straight, Richard to the council went;And thus, in mutual discontent,
Parted the victor and the sire—
The victor, with disdainful ire,
The Abbot, with a meek desire
To save Fitzharding's threatened life,
And keep from sacrilegious strife,
From envious and irreverend search,
His Abbey-precincts and his Church.
He sought the Knight; but still his guard,
The Saxon door, held sturdy ward.
314
Gave to his friendly call reply;
And, with a weary sigh, he sought
His cell, though peopled 'twas with thought,
With spectre-cares of many a day,
Still thronging where he silent lay:
There he resolved awhile to lie,
Hoping Fitzharding might be nigh.
XLV.
Wearied and worn with grief and fears,Vainly he mourned, that at his years
He took the burthen up again
Of Abbey-honours he thought vain,
And had resigned, foreseeing crime
And tumult in this fearful time;
But, weary of a long repose,
He, whom, his grateful monks re-chose,
Resumed his honours at life's close,
To be the lord and slave of men.
And now was come that evil day,
When the land bore divided sway.
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Of rule, of honour and of care;
Behold his trembling age reclined
On thorny pillows, 'broidered o'er
With pageantries, that ceased to blind
The vanities of years before;
And hear him mourn his comfort lost,
Wisdom, o'ercome by love of power,
The peace of age by worldly passion tossed.
XLVI.
Yet kindly conscious was the thoughtThat his last toil had not been vain,
To save from rage, or thirst of gain,
His Abbey, nigh to ruin brought.
His care had rescued her from woe,
And bade her former grandeur glow;
Repaired her walls and cloisters grey,
And o'er them thrown the tinted ray
(Through windows traced with legend story)
Of tinted lights of Melancholy;
Such as she loves to muse beneath,
Whether with rose, or cypress wreath,
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When the last, western gleam
Shoots a long, trembling beam
O'er the bold Norman arch and walks afar;
And Evening's choral hymn, the while,
Swells high, and falls along the aisle.
END OF THE SEVENTH CANTO.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |