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 |
 | I. | VOL. I. |
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| III,IV. |
 | Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III |  |
147
I. VOL. I.
GASTON DE BLONDEVILLE.
[Verse extracted from prose narrative.]
THE BRIDAL.
Lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,
The hind o'er the forest was fleeing;
The small birds tuned on every bough,
In sun and shade their gleeing.
The hind o'er the forest was fleeing;
The small birds tuned on every bough,
In sun and shade their gleeing.
And purple cups, and silver bells
From the green leaves were peeping;
The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells:
Nought but the thorn was weeping.
From the green leaves were peeping;
The wild-rose smiled in the mossy dells:
Nought but the thorn was weeping.
And so bright in the sun its tears did shine,
They showed like tears of pleasure;
And the airs of May, through the budding spray,
Breathed joyance, without measure.
They showed like tears of pleasure;
And the airs of May, through the budding spray,
Breathed joyance, without measure.
For this was Isabel's bridal morn
Who loved each bud and flower,
The wild-wood shade, the mountain head,
The deep vale's mead and bower.
Who loved each bud and flower,
The wild-wood shade, the mountain head,
The deep vale's mead and bower.
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And now was her festival gaily kept
By hagled brook and fountain,
From the low green bank, where the violet slept,
To the blue hill-top and mountain.
By hagled brook and fountain,
From the low green bank, where the violet slept,
To the blue hill-top and mountain.
And lightly, lightly, bounded the roe,
His footstep wing'd with pleasure,
And small birds sang from every bough,
Welcomes beyond all measure.
His footstep wing'd with pleasure,
And small birds sang from every bough,
Welcomes beyond all measure.
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[O'er the high western wolds afar]
I.
O'er the high western wolds afar,Glimmer'd some lights of yesterday;
And there, one bright, but trembling star
Among the streaky shadows lay,
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But soon the winds, that sing day's dirge,
Did o'er that star the shadows urge,
And hung the night with mourning!
II.
“What steps on the waste are beating?”He listened not long on the ground,
'Ere he fearfully heard a sound,
As of trampling hoofs retreating:
And a dismal cry and a foot draw nigh;
“Stand ho!” 'twas an armed man passed by:
But he spoke no sound of greeting,
And seemed like a death-shade fleeting.
III.
O'er the lone mountains riding,He gallop'd by gloomsome ways,
Where night-mists were abiding,
Round the witch of evil days:
Her name is written on the wind,
That speaks in cliffs and caves confin'd.
List there when the waning moon goes down,
And thou'lt hear the call her spirits own;
But as they pass, hold a chrystal glass,
Or thou'lt sorely rue the wild witch-tone.
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IV.
O'er the lone mountains riding,From a distant land he came,
No step his dark step guiding;
But he thought he saw a flame,
That bright, or dim, would sport awhile;
Then vanish, as in very guile;
He heard, as he passed, the witch-name sound;
And his startled steed, at a single bound,
Bore him away from that evil ground.
V.
But o'er the mountains pacingAs fast as he can flee,
Strange steps his steps are tracing,
And a shape he cannot see;
And, though he flee away, so prest,
Whether to north, or south or west,
Toward the past, or coming day,
(So dim the night he may not say)
Still oft by fits did ghastly gleam,
A corpse-light, all unknown to him.
VI.
He followed the light o'er deserts wide,Down in deep glens, where wild becks wail;
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He followed with dread, though link'd in mail;
Till it stayed before an iron gate,
Where battled turrets kept their state,
O'er towers so high and massy strong,
They seemed to giant-king belong.
VII.
Sir Adomar looked him all around:Turret on turret hung on high,
Shaping black lines on the dim sky;
Sir Adomar looked him all around;
Nought, save this castle, could he spy,
Though, heavily clanged a death-bell's sound;
And in each pause of the shuddering blast,
Moans were heard as of one from 'neath the ground!
VIII.
He struck on the gate with his good sword:“Ho! wardour, ho!” but never a word
Return'd the wardour from within.
“The storm is loud, the night is dark,
I hear from the woods the dog-wolf bark.
Up, wardour, up! it were a sin
To turn a traveller from your tower,
At such a lone and dreary hour;
A Saracen would let me in!”
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IX.
The wardour was watching through the loop,How many were of the stranger's troop.
He had left his torch in the cullis' bar,
And it let down a light on the lonely night,
That showed him harnessed, as for war.
His coat was mail, his helm was steel;
His visor did his look reveal;
Yet o'er his brow it cast a shade,
That made the wardour more afraid,
Than did the crimsoned plume above,
Or the mighty grasp of his iron glove.
He would not let the stranger in,
Till one, awakened by the din—
One whom the wardour need obey—
Seeing a lonely knight stand there,
Bade the wardour nought to fear:
He feared still, but he said not Nay:
Yet he would not ope the portal gate
To an unknown knight, without his state;
For neither squire, nor page, he saw:
He bade him then to the postern draw.
X.
The knight dismounted at the call;The porter let him through the wall;
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And led the knight to the lordly hall.
I' the lordly hall, so wide and dim,
One drowsy squire awaited him.
The ashy wood lay, white and cold,
On the raised hearth, where late was told,
With fiery eye and accent loud,
The deed of martial prowess proud;
Where late was told, in whispers low,
Some tale of terror and of woe,
The while each listener bent his head,
Nor lost a word the trouveur said:
Till fear crept o'er each nerve and vein,
That late had swell'd to martial strain;
And shadows crept along the wall,
Such as the sinful soul appal:
Till each, who heard, look'd round with dread,
And saw some phantom of the dead.
XI.
Now silent was the hearth and lone,Save that a stag-hound slumber'd there.
The tables in disorder were,
With relics of the evening fare;
The household to their rest were gone,
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The light that led the stranger on;
That show'd above steel armour gleaming,
And many a dusky banner streaming,
From the black rafters of the roof,
In the night-wind, far aloof,
Like to some flitting phantom seeming;
And, stalking o'er the rushy floor,
It showed the knight where steps of gore
Had stain'd its green, with foot-prints red.
And the stag-hound, as the knight passed by,
Sent forth a mournful fearful cry.
XII.
The drowsy squire the stranger led;(The wardour to his post was sped.)
They traversed the hall in silent march:
At the end was a door in a mitred arch.
The knight stood before that mitred door,
And gazed on a warrior shape above,
That seem'd to watch the passage o'er.
In his altered look strange passions strove!
The armoured shape leaned on its sword,
And downward bent its steely face,
As jealous who below might pace,
Or about to speak the challenge-word;
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The knight perforce must look upon.
XIII.
Thus, while he stood in wonder-trance,The squire upheld the torch on high,
Viewing the guest with watchful eye;
And marvelling what strange mischance
So check'd his step, and fix'd his glance:—
“Sir knight, why gaze you on that steel?
It is a baron's good and bold;
Had he been here, no welcome cold
Would he have shown a stranger-knight,
Who trusted to his towers at night.”
XIV.
The spell of fant'sie loos'd awhile,The knight return'd a grateful smile,
With thanks for this so courteous style;
And, then with thoughtful accent said,
While yet he stood, that shape before,
“The armour some resemblance had
To that of a dear friend no more!
A friend!”—he paus'd,—“a friend long dead!”
This, while he said, his colour fled.
The squire seem'd not to note his pain,
But, with fair speech, began again
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That it was night, and, not aware
Of honour'd guest approaching there,
The menials to their rest had gone;
A chamber should be fitted soon.
His squire and page should welcom'd be;
Right well he longed that squire to see.
XV.
The wearied knight a gesture made,And looked his thanks, but nothing said;
Save that, for rest alone he prayed.
He sighed, as through that guarded arch,
And vaulted gloom, he held his march;
And there, before his doubting sight,
Glided again a pale sad light,
Full often he had seen with fear,
Yet more he felt to meet it here.
Then came they to an iron door,
And the knight beheld that flame no more.
It opened to a second hall,
Where warriors frowned upon the wall;
And ladies smiled in portraiture,
With downcast eye and look demure.
An umbered flash the red torch threw,
Athwart each warrior's steadfast brow;
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A baron grim from lady fair.
XVI.
There is no need that I should tell,What hasty fare the stranger took;
Nor how the squire, with silent look,
Watched, wondering, what had him befell;
So strangely gleamed his hollow eyes,
From forth the lifted beaver's shade
So wan his lips, like one that dies,
So few the words and thanks he paid!
XVII.
Though round the hall his looks would steal,Not well did torch or lamp reveal
The portraiture of warriors grim,
Or noble dames hung there so dim;
Their frowns and smiles were lost to him.
But once, when that he turned his head
Where the fix'd torch a gleaming shed,
A sable form, ill seen at most,
Went gliding up a stair, on high,
Passed through an open gallery,
And through a door-way there was lost,
That seemed to lead to antient rooms,
Such as where silence dwells, and glooms.
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Though nought he said of what had sped;
But the spicy draught he deeply quaff'd,
Whenever the page his cup did fill.
And from his spirits chaced the ill.
XVIII.
The night-cheer o'er, the page led onThe stranger to his resting-place.
He led the way, that form had gone:
On the high stair he stood a space,
Waiting the knight's reluctant pace,
Then, with mute reverence, marshalled him
Through many a gallery, long and dim,
Where helmets watched, in order grim;
Through many a chamber, wide and lorn,
Where wint'ry damps had half withdrawn
The storied paintings on the wall.
Electra, o'er her brother's urn,
There bent the head, and seemed to mourn;
There, too, as meet in room and hall,
Troy's tale and Hector's piteous fall:
Here Priam's Court, in purple and pall,
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But Helen, on the rampart stood,
And pointed to the Grecian host,
Out-stretching to the briny flood.
Here Hector's wife sat in her bower,
Waiting her lord's returning hour;
And 'broidering 'midst her maiden train,
While her infant played with silken skein.
There—but it boots not that I say,
What stories once, in long array,
Lived on those walls, now ghastly clay.
XIX.
The knight would oft, as he strode by,Cast on their shade a searching eye;
And pause, as list'ning some drear sound,
That rose within the glimmering bound:
And start, as though some fearful sight
Passed along this gloom of night;
But, at a lesser winding stair,
(The long drawn chambers ended there,)
When to that narrow stair he drew,
He thought a robe of mourning hue
Went fleeting up that winding way;
No glimpse had he of shape or ray;
No foot he heard the stair ascend.
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As though some fiend, with evil haste,
Did up that lonely tower wend.
XX.
The knight, he stood on the step below—“Whither, my young page, dost thou go?
Who dwells within this lonely tower,
Passing with speed, in sable weed—
Passing with speed, at this dead hour?”
“Nobody, save the raven-crow,
Dwells within this lonely tower;
And here, Sir knight, is your resting-bower!”
“But in this tower I may not rest,
Till I know who that stair has pressed;
Did you not see that black weed wave?”
“Yes, knight, I saw the raven's wing,
Glint up that wall with sudden spring:
And hark! you now may hear him crave!”
XXI.
“It is not courteous, that my bowerShould be within this ruin'd tower!”
“But see, knight, 'tis not in decay;
The storm hath blown a bar away,
And the raven through the loop doth stray;
His nest is wet on the battlement grey:
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Hung round with work of choicest loom;
And erst it was the resting-place
Of our dear Lady Baroness,
Before she went to stranger-land.
My lord yet strays on foreign strand.
The chamber has another stair,
Leading to many chambers fair;
But no step goes by night so far,
Since my lord baron went to war.”
XXII.
The page stept on with torch before,Far as that stately chamber's door.
“Page! lift that light—fain would I know,
Whither that second flight doth go?”
“It goes to a battlement up on high,
And to a turret perching by.”
“Doth none keep watch on that turret high?”
“None, but the raven with his cry!
Your rest, Sir knight, he will not break;
To traitors only doth he speak.
They say he scents the new spilt blood.”
Upon the stair the raven stood!
He turn'd his dark eye on the knight,
And, screaming, upward winged his flight.
The wondering page looked back with fright,
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Then, hardly daring to advance,
Lingered he at that chamber-door;
“On,” said the knight, “with torch before!”
Scarce was the page the threshhold o'er,
When check he made, and pale he turn'd;
Dim and more dim the torch-flame burn'd.
The knight look'd on, but nothing saw,
That might explain this sudden awe.
XXIII.
A spacious chamber there was spread,And, for his rest, a stately bed;
Fresh rushes on the floor were strewn;
Faint on the arras'd walls were shown
The heroes of some antient story,
Now faded, like their mortal glory.
Another form, as dark as doom,
Stood within that chamber's gloom,
Unseen by those who entered there.
His cause of dread the page thus said:
“Methought I saw, within that chair,
The baron's self, my very lord;
I saw it, on a true man's word:
I saw my lord return'd from far,
Arrayed, as he went forth to war!
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But looked not, as he wont to look.
Yet now no living shape I see,
And know that here he could not be;
For, long since, he these walls forsook:
Yet is it strange such visions pale,
Should o'er my waking sight prevail.”
XXIV.
“Whose are these antient walls, I pray?”The sullen stranger 'gan to say:
“Sir, know you not these towers and halls
Watch where the foaming Conway falls?
Who should these walls and towers own?
And the wide woods and forest round,
Even to Snowdon's utmost bound,
Save the brave lord of Eglamore?”
The knight explained his ignorance,
He was a wanderer late from France.
The page surveyed him o'er again;
He thought the wily knight did feign:
A deadly hue was on his cheek;
His looks spoke more than words may speak.
Yet to the page, though much it told,
He read not all it might unfold.
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XXV.
The knight perceived his doubting thought,And drew a badge forth from his breast;
Some noble Order's golden crest,
Upon a field of silver wrought.
“This badge,” he said, “with blood was bought.”
He turn'd with haughty frown away.
The page did not more doubt betray;
But service offered to undo
His casque and linked harness true;
But the stranger gravely said him Nay,
And refused that night to disarray.
XXVI.
Wondering, yet fearing to demand,Why to these towers from distant land,
The knight had come, without his train,
Pondered the youth his doubts again;
Again, as though his thoughts he read,
The knight look'd sternly down and said,
“My squire and my foot-page I missed
At night-fall, when the woods betwixt.
But they perchance may shelter find,
From this bitter-blowing wind,
In the deep hollow of some hill,
Till the dawn break, and the storm be still.”
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XXVII.
“But the wolf bays in the blast afar;Sir knight, how may they scape such war?
I hear him now—he nearer howls!
Mercy! mercy! save their souls!”
“Hark!” said the knight, and stood aghast;
It was no wolf-howl in the blast;
It was a blood-hound's dreadful bay,
The stranger heard, with such dismay—
The blood-hound at the tower below;
That over pathless hill and dale,
Had tracked a murderer in the gale,
And came to claim his master's foe.
While listening to the lengthen'd yell,
The stranger seemed to hear his knell.
“A blood-hound loose, and at this hour!
Your rest, sir knight, had ill been kept;
Nor one within these gates had slept,
Had I been in my distant tower.”
The page he lighted a lamp on high;
The stranger stifled scarce a sigh,
That heavily for utterance pressed.
He heard the page's steps descend,
And go where the long chambers bend,
Down to the halls, and th' outer walls.
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He was marked with the blood of a murder'd man!
XXVIII.
The knight, he listened in silent dread,Till now, the blood-hound's voice was stilled;
But soon a low voice near him sped,
That every nerve with horror thrilled.
He looked the way that lone voice came,
And saw, by the lamp's tall spiring flame,
A portraiture on the wall beneath,
Of noble dame, that seemed to breathe.
Robed in sable weeds was she:
The gleam fell on that lady's brow;
There, written dimly, you might see,
The characters of hopeless woe.
XXIX.
Soon as that lady's face he saw,All other dread his heart forsook;
He gazed with fixt and frenzied awe,
And vainly tried away to look:
For to his fearful sight it seemed,
As though her eyes on his were bent;
And, where the pale flame wavering gleamed,
As if her varying cheek were blent
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While round her lips a grim smile drew,
And the rose paled that on them blew;
And, with faint lingering breath,
“Prepare,” she said, “thy hour is nigh!
Unpitying, thou hast seen me die;
Unpitied be thy mortal sigh!”
XXX.
He heard the words—the words alone;He heard not that deep solemn groan;
He heard not the clang of the 'larum bell,
Nor from the gates that horn-blast swell;
Nor heard the many-trampling hoofs,
Nor voices calling in the gale,
And ringing round the castle roofs,
Till they made the 'battled raven quail;
Nor heard the funeral shriek, that broke
Through every hall and lofty tower;
He heard alone the words she spoke.
XXXI.
Nor saw he in the court below,By the torches' umbered glow,
Borne upon his bleeding bier,
With wounds unclosed and open eyes,
A warrior stretched in death draw near;
Nor heard the loud and louder cries,
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From every friend and vassal true.
But he knew that voice at his chamber-door,
And straight the witch-veil of glamour
Falls, and his wonder-trance is o'er.
He hears his summons in that sound;
It is the bark of the true blood-hound.
True to his murdered lord is he;
He has traced the steps he could not see—
Traced them o'er darkened miles and miles,
O'er glen and mountain, wood and moor,
Through all their swift and winding wiles,
Till he stopped before his master's door,
And bayed the murderer in his bower.
XXXII.
The castle gates were strait unbarred,And he sprang before his bleeding lord;
He passed the page unheeded by,
And tracked the stranger's steps on high;
Till at the door, that closed him in,
Loud and dread became his din.
The doors are burst, and the spectre-light
Betrayeth the form of the blood-tracked knight:
He was armed all over in coat of mail,
But nothing did steel that night avail;
He fell a torn corpse, beside that chair,
Whereunto the page did late appear,
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His murdered lord with lance and shield.
The murderer fell, and his death-wound found
In the terrible fangs of the true blood-hound.
| Gaston de Blondeville, or The court of Henry III | |