University of Virginia Library

III,IV. VOL III, IV.

ST. ALBAN'S ABBEY:

A POETICAL ROMANCE.

Spirit of ancient days! who o'er these walls,
Unseen and silent, hold'st thy solemn state,
Thy presence known where the gloom deepest falls,
And by th' unearthly thoughts that on thee wait:
Descend, and touch my heart with thine own fire,
And nerve my trembling fancy to aspire
To the dread scenes that thou hast witnessed here!
Teach me, in language simple and severe,
(Such best may harmonize with ruder times)
With place and circumstance of awful crimes,
To paint th' awakening vision thou hast spread
Before mine eyes—tale of the mighty dead!
And let not modern polish throw the light
Of living ray within thy vaults of night,
But give thy elder words, whose sober glow,
Like to th' illumined gloom of thine own aisles,
Touching the mind with more than light may show,
Wakes highest rapture while it darkly smiles.
Presumptuous wish! Ah! not to me are given
Those antients keys, that ope the Poet's heaven,
Golden and rustless! Not to me are given!
But, if not mine the prize, not mine the crime
Lightly to scorn them, nor the simple chime,
Though tuneless oft, when to the scene more true
Than flowing verse, bright with Castalian dew.
Like Grecian goddess, placed in Saxon choir,
Is the false union of the cadenced rhime
And measured sweetness of the tempered lyre
With subjects darkened by the shroud of Time.
As Gothic saint sleeping in Grecian fane
Is ancient story, shrined in polished strain;
Truth views th' incongruous scene with stern farewell,
And startled Fancy weeps and breaks her spell.

CANTO I. THE ABBEY.

I.

Know ye that pale and ancient choir,
Whose Norman tower lifts it's pinnacled spire?
Where the long Abbey-aisle extends
And battled roof o'er roof ascends;
Cornered with buttresses, shapely and small,
That sheltered the Saint in canopied stall;
And, lightened with hanging turrets fair,
That so proudly their dental coronals wear,
They blend with a holy, a warlike air;
While they guard the Martyr's tomb beneath,
And patient warriors, laid in death?

II.

Know ye that transept's far-stretched line,
Where stately turrets, more slenderly fine,
Each with a battlement round it's brow,
Win the uplifted eye below?
How lovely peers the soft blue sky
Through their small double arch on high!
Deepening the darkness of it's shade,
And seeming holier peace to spread.
More grandly those turrets, mossed and hoar,
Upon the crimson evening soar.
Yet lovelier far their forms appear
When they lift their heads in the moonlight air;
And softening beams of languid white
Tip their shadowy crowns with light.
But most holy their look, when a fleecy cloud
O'er them throws it's trembling shroud,
Then palely thinly dies away,
And leaves them to the full bright ray.
Thus Sorrow fleets from Resignation's smile;
The virtue lives—the suffering dies the while.

III.

And, as these moonlight-towers we trace,
A living look, a saintly grace
Beams o'er them, when we seem to hear
The midnight-hymn breathe soft and clear,
As from this choir of old it rose.
Each hallowed thought they seem to own,
Expressed by music's heavenly tone;
And patient, sad, and pale and still,
As if resign'd to wait Time's will.
Such choral swell and dying close
Stole on the Abbot's hour of rest,
Like solemn air from spirit blest,
And shaped his vision of repose.
The pious instinct of his soul,
Not even slumber might control:
Soon as he caught the distant lay,
His gathering thoughts half woke to pray;
Celestial smile came o'er his brow,
Though sealed in sleep the lid below;
And, when in silence died the strain,
The lingering prayer
His lips forbear,
And deep his slumbers fall again.

IV.

Bold is this Abbey's front, and plain;
The walls no shrined saint sustain,
Nor tower, nor airy pinnet crown;
But broadly sweeps the Norman arch
Where once in brightened shadow shone
King Offa, on his pilgrim-march
And proudly points the mouldered stone
Of the high-vaulted porch beneath,
Where Norman beauty hangs a wreath
Of simple elegance and grace;
Where slender columns guard the space
On every side, in clustered row,
The triple arch through arch disclose,
And lightly o'er the vaulting throw
The thwart-rib and the fretted rose.
Beside this porch, on either hand,
Giant buttresses darkly stand,
And still their silent vanguard hold
For bleeding Knights, laid here of old;
And Mercian Offa and his Queen
The portal's guard and grace are seen.
This western front shows various style,
Less ancient than the central pile.
No furrows deep upon its brow
The frown of seven stern centuries show;
Yet the sad grandeur of the whole
Gives it such a look of soul,
That, when upon it's silent walls
The silvered grey of moonlight falls,
And the fixed image dim appears,
It seems some shade of parted years
Left watching o'er the mouldering dead,
Who here for pious Henry bled,
And here, beneath the wide-stretched ground
Of nave, of choir, of chapels round,
For ever—ever, rest the head.

V.

Now know ye this pale and ancient Choir,
Where the massy tower lifts a slender spire?
Here forty abbots have ruled and one,
Twenty with pall and mitre on,
And bowed them to the Pope alone.
Their hundred monks, in black arrayed,
The Benedictine rules obeyed;
O'er distant lands they held their sway;
Freed from Peter's-pence were they;
The gift of palle from Pope they claimed,
And Cardinal-Abbots were they named;
And even old Canterbury's lord
Was long refused the premier board;
For this was the first British Martyr's bier,
And the Pope said “His priest shall have no peer:”
Now know ye St. Alban's bones rest here.

VI.

Kings and heroes here were guests
In stately halls, at solemn feasts.
But now, nor dais, nor halls remain;
Nor fretted window's gorgeous pane
Twilight illuminated throws
Where once the high-served banquet rose.

VII.

No fragment of a roof remains
To echo back their wassail strains;
But the long aisles, whose holy gloom
Still mourns and veils the martyr's tomb.
The broad grey tower, the turrets wide,
Scattered o'er tower and transept, guide
The distant traveller to their throne,
Where they high-seated watch alone,
And seem, with aspect sad, to tell,
That they of all their Abbey's power
Remain to point, where heroes fell,
And monarch met his evil hour,
And guileless, meek, and pious, bowed
To doubtful right's victorious crowd.

VIII.

Now, if this cloister, fallen and gone,
Ye fain would view, as once it shone,
Pace ye, with reverend step, I pray,
The grass-grown and forgotten way,
While murmurs low the fitful wind,
Winning to peace the meeken'd mind;
And Evening, in her solemn stole,
With stillness o'er those woods afar,
Leads in blue shade her brightening star,
As spreads the slow gloom from the pole,
And these old towers their watch more awful keep,
(Where once the Curfew spoke with solemn rule)
And the faint hills and all the valley sleep
In misty grey beneath the “dewy cool.”
Yet, if a worldly heart ye wear,
These visioned-shades forbear—forbear!
To thee no dim-seen halls may gleam,
For thee no hallowed tapers beam
On the pale visage through the gloom
Bending in prayer by shrine, or tomb.
Turn thou thy wearied step away;
Go thou where dance and song are gay,
Or where the sun is flaming high,
And leave these scenes to Evening's sigh.

IX.

But ye, with measured step and slow,
Whose smile is shaded soft with woe;
And ye, who holy joy can know,
The glow beyond all other glow,—
Ye, whose high spirit dares to dwell
Beyond the reach of earthly spell,
And tread upon the dizzy verge
Of unknown worlds; or downward urge,
Through ages dim, your steadfast sight,
And trace their shapes of shadowed light,
O come “with meek submitted thought,”
With lifted eye, by Rapture taught,
And o'er your head the gloom shall rise
Of monkish chambers, still and wide,
As once they stood; and to your eyes
Group after group shall slowly glide,
And here again their duties ply,
As they were wont, long ages by.
The twilight broods not yet so deep,
But we may trace where now they sleep
Beneath the sullen turf, aloof,
And where each solemn chamber's roof
Drew it's strong vaulting o'er their frames,
But urged on human praise no claims,
Nor always bore their living names.

X.

On yonder brow, that fronts the West,
Where glimmering beams in stillness rest,
Once rose the Abbot's Hall of Right,
That wont to view Ver's stream below
And shallow valley westward go
To farthest hills, that owned his might;
And from those farthest hills were seen,
Through oaken boughs of stretching green,
The fretted window of that hall,
The pinnacle, that crowned it's wall,
And seemed to watch it's portal grey,
With crimson light tinged by the setting ray.

XI.

Thus rose the Abbot's vaulted Hall,
Where he, in virtue of the palle,
Spoke doom to all his vassal throng;
For life and death were on his tongue,
And scarce less ready to fulfill
His worldly, than his better will,
Were peasant, vavasour, and knight,
From London's wall to Beechwood's height.
His weighty robe of velvet fold
Was 'broidered round, and clasped with gold
A Prior helped his office to sustain,
A hundred monks did dignify his reign.
Pale were they and closely shorn,
Heedless they were of human scorn
And arts that wait on human pride;
In patience each with other vied.
'Mong such had Matthew Paris stood,
Pious, learned, wise and good,
Though shrouded in a bigot's hood.

XII.

Here, where the deeper shadows fall,
Once echoed o'er the paved hall
The weary step and staff of him,
Who, at this lonely hour and dim,
The last chill hour of eventide,
Had heard from yonder bleak hill side,
Where once stood Roman Verulam,
Faint o'er the wintry waters come
The bell of Compline, chiming slow
From forth this Abbey's unseen tower,
And spied, amid the shades below,
The hearth-blaze in the stranger's bower;
For here the Pilgrim's Lodge arose,
Whose porch and hall and parlour warm
And well-closed chambers of repose
Received him from the rushing storm.

XIII.

And, when he reached the cheering blaze,
How sweet to think upon those ways,
As the shrill wind and sleety rain
Against the casements strove in vain.
But crowding thoughts soon chased repose,
And nigh to sacred rapture rose,
As now he knew himself so near
The object of his long career,
And, safely placed, where all around
Was ancient, consecrated ground;
The precinct sought o'er sea and shore,—
The grave of him, whose sufferings o'er
Had now their glorious triumph found!

XIV.

There the Scriptorium spread it's gloom,
To dead and living, like one tomb;
The living there like dead might show,
So mutely sat they, ranged in row;
Scarce seen to move, from hour to hour,
Copying the written folio rare,
Or tracing bird, or curious flower,
Round blessed Mary in her bower,
In splendid gold and colours fair,
On missal leaf, with painful care,
Or portraiture of Donor good,
That, closely kept and seldom viewed,
Still fresh and glorious should be
For century following century.

XV.

Others there were, who volumes bound
In silk, or velvet, 'broidered round
And 'bossed with gold and gems of price,
Enclasped with emerald palm-leaf thrice.
On the high window near would shine,
Transparent, the memorial line
Of him, who once had wrought below,
With patient hand and earnest brow;
Him, whose small pencil thus enshrined
In book of Golden Record true,
The image and the noble mind,
And thanks to benefactor due.
There shadowed Kings and Abbots pass,
In crowned pomp, or sweeping palle,
Like spectres o'er some wizard's glass.
There, as the lifted pages fall,
They rise to view and disappear,
As year steals silent after year,
Till came the blank leaf, turned o'er all!
Even o'er him, while here he wrought
On the dull page the living thought.
In after-time were here impressed
Those wondrous characters combined,
That stamp upon the paper vest
At once, the image of the mind.
The second Abbey this in all the land,
That stretched to learning a preserving hand.

XVI.

Here cloister-walks, in spacious square,
Showed sacred story, painted fair,
And portraiture of famous men,
Who seemed to live and speak again,
In golden maxims from the walls.
Nobly these cloisters ranged along
By chapels, chambers, courts and halls,
Dividing from the cowled throng,
As with a dim and pillared aisle,
The Royal lodging's stately pile.
There the Queen's parlour, and her bower,
Hung o'er the sunny southern glade;
And here the place of monarch-power
Gleamed through the Abbey's farther shade.
The foliaged arch, the well-carved door
Of chamber, hung from vault to floor
With storied scene, or cloth of gold,
Or 'broidered velvet's purple fold,
Rose beauteous to the taste of yore.
And slender shafts, entwined with flowers,
Lifted their high o'er-arching bowers,
Traced forth with mimic skill so true,
Kings seemed their Windsor's groves to view.

XVII.

The high-carved chimney's canopy
Spread broad o'er half a blazing tree,
With pinnacle and mitre wrought
And shielded arms of Mercia's court,
Three royal crowns; and blazonry
Of many an abbot lying near
In choir, or cloister, on his bier.
High in the midst a marble form
Stood in it's tabernacle shade,
Pale as the gleam of April storm;
Oft was the passing monk afraid;
So sternly watched the downcast eye!
Yet hardly might such monk know why.
On the brow a kingly crown it wore,
In it's hand a Mercian sceptre bore;
'Twas Offa stood there on his fretted throne,
Whom these holy walls for their founder own,
Who Charlemagne for foe and friend had known.
And in that chamber, not in vain,
With mullions light and roial pane,
Rose th' oriel window's triple arch,
That pictured forth the solemn march
Of Offa, with his pilgrim train.

XVIII.

Within these walls there was one scene,
Where worldly matters were discussed;
It was the Prior's cloister-green;
There ruled he, by the Abbot's trust.
For not amid the noise of men,
Disturbed by their familiar ken,
Dwelt the Lord Abbot; his recess
Was little easy of access;
No; by the southern transept rose
(The shelves with store of learning fraught)
His Lodge and Cloister of repose,
His bower, where all apart he sought,
From convent-state and homage free,
Leisure and learned dignity.

XIX.

Lost now that Study's farther shade,
Whose peace no stray step might invade,
Nor any sound of breathing life,
Save when the Choir, in faint, sweet strife
Of voice and citole offering
Praise, such as Angel-bands might sing,
In lessening chorus, on their way,
Ascending to Eternal Day,
Were heard with joyful murmuring,
Their pure, harmonious strains to bring.
It's deep, perspective shade is gone,
That led, where the rich oriel shone,
Where golden gloom the stained glass shed
O'er the lone Abbot's bended head,
As, sitting in his ebon chair,
Lulled by sweet harmonies afar,
He mused on death and life to come,
The dawn of peace beyond the tomb,
Or called back years, that o'er his head had rolled,
And knew himself for one, whose tale is told!
So still his form, so fixed his look,
As dwelt his pale eyes o'er his book,
So true, so clearly might you trace
The lines of thought upon his face,
He seemed some shade, that loves to dwell
Where late it's mortal substance fell—
To linger in the living scene,
Where erst it's cares, it's joys had been;
The while each shuddering sigh of air,
That breathed upon the ivy near,
Passed o'er the Vision's patient head,
Like whisper of the spirit fled.

XX.

Far distant rose those walls upon the light,
The stately walls, with tapestry richly dight,
Of th' Abbot's Banquet-hall, where, as on throne,
He sat at the high dais, like prince, alone,
Save when a Royal guest came here,
Or Papal Legate claimed a chair.
Here marble platforms, flight o'er flight,
Slow rising through the long-lined view,
Showed tables, spread at different height,
Where each for different rank he knew.
And, with pleased glance, adown the hall,
Saw Bishops in their far-sought palle,
The Abbey's noble Seneschal,
Barons and Earls, in gold array,
And warrior Knights, in harneys grey.
There was the Prior's delegated sway.
The grave Archdeacon sat below,
And th' hundred Monks, in row and row;
Not robed in dismal sable they
Upon a high and festal day,
But all in copes most costly and most gay.
There, too, the Abbey-Marshal shone,
And there, beside the Abbot's throne,
Chaplain of Honour from the Pope, alone.

XXI.

Thus the Lord-Abbot, were he proud,
Might muse upon the chequered crowd;
Nor always did his mind disdain
The worldly honours, though so vain.
His board with massive plate was laid,
And rare inventions it displayed;
Each sewer-monk his homage paid
With bended knee and bowed head,
And Latin verse, half sung, half said
On every platform, as he rose
Through the long hall to it's high close,
Where frankincense from golden urns
In light wreath round the Abbot burns.
The chaunted Latin grace was sung
With pomp of instruments, that rung
The arched roofs and screens among.
And, when a Royal guest was there,
The Abbot, rising from his chair,
Blessed, with spread hands, the ordered feast,
While reverend stood each princely guest,
And far adown the hall might see
Knights, Bishops, Earls, on bended knee.

XXII.

And when came up, at old Yule-tide,
The boar's head, trimmed with garlands gay,
With shining holly's scarlet pride,
And the sweet-scented rosemary,
O! then what merry carols rung,
What choral lays the minstrels sung!
Marching before it through the hall,
Led by the stately Seneschal.
This was the joyous minstrel's call,
In Leonine with English strung:

XXIII.

Then, every voice in chorus joined
Of those who sat in festal row.
You might have heard it on the wind—
Heard it o'er hills of desert snow.
Thence might be seen, in vale below,
Through windows of that Banquet-hall,
The mighty Yule-Clough blazing clear,
And the Yule-Tapers, huge and tall,
Lighting the roofs with timely cheer.
But, ere a few brief hours were sped,
The blaze was gone—the guests were fled.
And heavy was the Winter's sigh,
As those lone walls it passed by.

XXIV.

Now, ere the Abbot's feast began,
Or yet appeared the crane and swan,
The solemn Carver, with his keen
Knife, and well armed with napkins clean,
Scarf-wise athwart his shoulder placed,
And on each arm and round his waist,
Came, led by Marshal, to the dais.
There every trencher he assays,
O'er the Great Salt makes flourishes,
Touches each spoon and napkin fair,
Assaying whether ill lurk there,
Ere he present it to his lord,
Or offer it at the Rewarde.
The Sewer, half-kneeling on his way,
Of every dish receives assaye
At the high board, as guard from guile,
The Marshal waiting by the while,
And ancient carols rising slow
From the young Choir and Monks below.
And thus, as every course came on,
These pomps an awful reverence won.

XXV.

Soon as the last high course was o'er,
The Chaplain from the cupboard bore,
With viands from the tables stored,
The Alms-Dish to the Abbot's board,
And ample loaf, and gave it thence,
With due form and good countenance,
That th' Almoner might it dispense.
Next came the Cup-bearers, with wine,
Malmsey and golden metheglin,
With spice-cake and with wafers fine.
This o'er, when surnaps all were drawn,
And solemn grace again was sung,
Came golden ewer and bason, borne
In state to the high board along.

XXVI.

But, at high tide, ere all was past,
Marched the huge Wassail-bowl the last,
Obedient to the Abbot's call,
Borne by the Steward of the hall;
The Marshal with his wand before
And streamers gay and rosemary,
And choral carols sounding o'er.
'Twas set beside the father's dais,
Where oft the Deacon, in his place,
Who bearer of the grace-cup was,
Filled high the cordial Hippocras
From out that bowl of spicery,
And served the Abbot on his knee;
Then, sent around to every board
This farewell-wassail from his lord.
The Abbot, tasting of the wine,
Rose from his chair, in wonted sign
The feast was o'er; yet stood awhile
In cheerful converse with high guest,
Who from the tables round him pressed
Then, with a kind and gracious smile,
The wassail and the board he blessed,
Ere yet he left the gorgeous scene,
And sought the tranquil shade within.

XXVII.

Here, with proud grace, did Wolsey stand,
Signing forth blessings with his hand,
And oft the grace-cup had allowed
To move among the willing crowd.
Grandeur sat on his steadfast brow,
'Mid high Imagination's glow;
He seemed to feel himself the lord
Of all who sat beside his board,
And, whether Peer, or Prince, or King,
'Twas meet to him they homage bring;
And homage willed they, since his pride
Had genius, judgement, taste, for guide.
Which held it in such fine control,
Pride seemed sublimity of soul.

XXVIII.

Short while the Abbot did repose,
When he had left the Banquet-hall;
For soon, where his arched chamber rose,
Would other pageant-scenes disclose
On days of convent festival.
Here, on the Martyr's annual feast
When Obits at his shrine had ceased;
When Give-Ale and the Dole were o'er;
When Robin Hood had left his bower,
And in the Convent's spacious court
The morrice-dancers ceased their sport,
And on the rout was closed the Abbey-door;
Then torch and taper, blazing clear
Within the Abbot's evening room,
Banished the heavy, wintry gloom;
And Mysteries were acted here.
Then, Chronicle of Kings, pourtrayed
From England's story, long gone by,
In mimic garb and scene arrayed
Awoke the brethren's solemn sigh;
Such as we breathe o'er these, our theme,
Whelmed in the ever-passing stream.

XXIX.

Here, too, the Minstrels' chaunted song
Told of their sainted Alban's fate;
But, oft the measure wound along
With tales of Chivalry's high state,
Of knights, of ladies and of love,
Ambition's eagle, Beauty's dove,
And many a lay of Holy Land,
Of Richard's and of Edward's band.
The harpers, in the noble train
Of Abbey guest, oft joined the strain;
And, as they woke with fire the lay,
Or bade it's moving grief decay,
Each silent monk, with look attent,
His head, unhooded, thoughtful, bent.
Then might you watch, in the stern eye,
The busy, fretful passions die,
Such as in gloom and loneness dwell,
Gnawing the bosom's vital cell,
And spreading poison through the soul,
That yields to their malign control.

XXX.

'Twas sweet the softened mind to trace
Beaming upon time-hardened face,
Won by still harmony to rest;
And all unconscious of the tear,
That, stranger to such brow severe,
Upon the closing eyelid pressed.
But sweeter 'twas to mark the smile
Of the blind Minstrel o'er the strings;
Darkness, nor want, he knows the while,
As wide the storied verse he flings;
For Music can all wants beguile,
With bright perception chase his night,
And can awake that glow of heart,
Affection's dearest smiles impart;
For Music is—the blind man's light!
The beam, that does to mental ray
Image and sentiment display,
The world of passion, living thought,
All that the mind through sight ere sought.
Then sigh not, that he dwells in night,
For he hath Music for his light!

XXXI.

This vaulted chamber once was lined
With arras rich, where stood combined
The story of Cologne's Three Kings,
With other far-famed ancient things.
Yet oft, on solemn festival,
A deeper tale spoke from the wall,
Such as might aid the mimic show
Enacted on the scene below;
Where the raised platform, near the Bay,
Served well for stage. That oriel gay
Rose with light leaves and columns tall,
Mid roial glass and fretwork small;
While tripod lamps from the coved roof
Showed well each painted mask aloof,
Lanfranc and Saxon Edward there,
Watching the scene they once could share.

XXXII.

That oriel shed bright influence
And charm, by its magnificence,
On all there told by eye, or tongue,
Morality, or Mystery,
Or Founder's boon, or History.
In front, the velvet curtain, flung
In folds aside, not then for shade,
Or shelter, as when winds invade,
Made graceful ornament between
The roof and the fictitious scene.
How different from this festal grace,
How fit it's blandishments to chase,
Were the long vistas, ranging here
Of the Great Cloister's pillared square.

XXXIII.

And when could festal joy e'er vie
With the calm rapture of the sigh
Breathed in that Cloister's solemn shade,
When the lone monk would muse and read,
And meditate on ancient lore,
Or view the warrior on his tomb,
With raised hands seeming to implore
Of Heaven a mitigated doom?
So shaded would such figure lie,
Tall arches pointing o'er the head,
That, though a window, placed on high,
It's gleam through distant colours shed,—
So dim would lie in shades below,
That, whether living shape, or dead,
The monk, who gazed, might hardly know.
And often, at the midnight-watch,
(The shrine-watch in the aisle beside)
His ear attent low sound would catch,
That stole along the tomb and died,
As though he had some holy word
In whisper from the marble heard!
Followed a stillness all profound;
Was it some spirit from the ground
That breathed a spell of death around?
If the monk watched some little space,
Life would seem trembling o'er the face!
The pallid stone would change it's hue,
And tremble to his doubting view!

XXXIV.

Gone is that Cloister's shadowy walk,
Where the more aged would pace and talk,
Or, resting in the well-carved nook,
Leisurely read the rare lent book,
Turning each page with reverend care.
Th' illuminator's work to spare;
Or tell some legend of a saint,
Or allegory, little worth,
Of monkish virtues pictured forth
In leonine, of Latin quaint.
Whate'er it were, 'twas fine repose,
In cloister-shade, at evening close,
To lean along that oaken seat,
And, all enwrapt in quiet gloom,
Hear the still Vesper, rising sweet
From sainted Oswyn's shrine and tomb,
Or Obit from the chantry near
Of the good Abbot Delamere,
Swell faint and die upon the ear.
And solemn 'twas and sweet, the while,
To mark upon some distant aisle,
Seen through deep arch of transept-door,
The streaming torch-light break the shade,
Strike the tall arches over head,
Or, slanting low that long aisle o'er,
Show, some dim sepulchre before,
The lonely, duteous mourner there,
Kneeling and veiled in watch of prayer.

XXXV.

There, ranged around in silent guard,
Seventeen kings yet watch and ward
The good Duke Humphrey's mouldering form,
Here rescued from the earthly storm,
Raised by a rival—now a worm!
And, when the midnight chaunts were still,
Strange sounds the vault below would fill.
A ghastly shade, with mitred head,
Has stalked, that lonely tomb around,
And knelt upon the honoured ground,
With hands upon its white palle spread,
In seeming prayer and penance lost;
'Twas guessed this was a murderer's ghost,
Condemned to wander round the grave
Of him, whom kindness could not save.
There were, who in that shade could see
(Or 'twas the moonbeam's mockery)
Beaufort of cruel memory!
Such look as dying he had shown,
When hope of Heaven he did not own,
And Horror stared beside his bed;
Such grisly look this visage had.

XXVI.

And, at such hour, was sometimes seen,
Veiled in thin shadowy weeds of woe,
The image of a stately Queen,
Near the cold marble pacing slow.
The crown upon her hair gleamed faint,
And more of heroine than saint
Was drawn upon her lofty brow.
The proud, heroic graces there,
The grandeur of her step and air,
No softer charms of pity share.
Alas! that such commanding mind
Were not with truth and mercy joined!
Now, were her look, her eye of fire,
That once could warlike bands inspire,
Dimmed with the tear of vain remorse:
Far less had been a kingdom's loss,
Than loss of holy innocence;
So said her fixed and anguished countenance.

XXXVII.

But Margaret's moan, nor Beaufort's word,
Was heard at Vesper's hallowed hour
To musing monk, in cloister-bower;
Pious sounds alone he heard,
And listened oft, with saintly smile,
When Autumn's gale swept o'er the aisle,
And bore the swelling hymn away
Up to the realms of heavenly day!
But, when the fitful gust was gone,
Rose that strain with a sweeter tone;
The hymn of Peace it seemed to be—
Her hushed and meekest minstrelsy—
Her welcome to the Just, when free
From this short world of misery.
The monk, who listened, many a still tear shed,
By trembling Hope and blessed Pity fed;
The listener's self how soon among the dead!

XXXVIII.

But who the changing scenes may tell
This Abbey's ancient walls have known!
When London tolled the Plague's death-bell,
Justice here held her courts alone;
Here, in this nave, was placed her throne.
An earlier age showed scenes more dread,
For shrines and tombs around were spread
With bleeding knights and nobles dead.
Next age, the latter Henry's bands
Each consecrated altar spoiled,
Seized on the Abbey's ample lands,
And recklessly for plunder toiled.
Then, nearer to the living day,
Here other spoilers bore the sway,
Who, feigning Reason for their guide,
Indulged an impious, bigot pride.
All arrogant in their chicane,
They dared these reverend walls profane.
Then Cromwell's bands on grave-stones lay,
And storied brasses tore away;
The sculptured marble tombs defaced
Of those, who, nameless, sleep below;
That the tall arch, with web-work traced
That shadowed form of Prophet graced,
Was shattered by their impious blow.

XXXIX.

Of all this Abbey's ample bound
One outer arch alone is found,
To mark the Convent's stately port,
The entrance of the western court,
Beneath whose arch have passed the trains
Of Kings succeeding Kings, when strains
From trump and clarion, as from fort,
Have shook the massy walls around,
And startled with the warrior-sound
The penanced monk, in distant cell,
(He had his long beads twice to tell,
Nor knew what form he muttered then,)—
While forth, to meet their Sovereign,
The Abbot and his convent paced,
With time-worn banners, ranged in haste.

XL.

Then from the convent-hall within
Faint might be heard the joyous din
Of minstrel-harp and choral voice,
That for the royal-guest rejoice;
And then the painted window bright,
Lighting, on high, the murky night,
And showing portraiture of Saint,
Kind signal to the Pilgrim faint;
But to the robber, in his cell
Of giant-oak, it told too well,
That richly-dight and jewelled guest
Would late return to distant rest.
The darkened vale and subject-town
Viewed such bright vision with a frown,
And murmured, that the tyrant knell
Of iron Curfew should compel
Their homes to sink in sudden night,
When e'en the turret, whence it spoke,
Insulting those who owned the yoke,
Lifted it's brow, all ruddy bright,
Flushed from the Abbey-Hall's strong light.

XLI.

But, though these lighted halls are gone,
And darkly stands that tower and lone,
The sacred temple still endures;
A truer worship it secures.
And, though the gorgeous shrines are o'er,
And their pale watch-monks now no more;
Though torch, nor voice, from chantry-tomb,
Break, solemn, through the distant gloom;
Though pilgrim-trains no more ascend
Where far-seen arches dimly bend,
And fix in awe th' admiring eye
Upon the Martyr's crown, on high,
And watch upon his funeral-bed;
Nor hundred Monks, by Abbot led,
Through aisle and choir, by tomb and shrine,
Display the long-devolving line,
To notes of solemn minstrelsy,
And hymns, that o'er the vaulting die
Yet, we here feel the inward peace,
That in long-reverenced places dwells;
Our earthly cares here learn to cease;
The Future all the Past expels.
And still, so solemn falls the shade,
Where once the weeping Palmer prayed,
We feel, as o'er the graves we tread,
His thrill of reverential dread.

XLII.

Thou silent Choir, whose only sound
Is whispering step o'er graves around,
Or echo faint from vault, on high,
Of the poor redbreast's minstrelsy,
Who, perched on some carved mask of stone,
By lofty gallery dim and lone,
Sends sweet, short note, but sparely heard,
That sounds e'en like the farewell word
Of some dear friend, whose smile in vain
We seek through tears to view again!
Thou holy shade—unearthly gloom!
That hoverest o'er the Martyr's tomb;
Ye awful vaults, whose aspect wears
The ghastliness of parted years!
The very look, the steadfast frown,
That ye on ages past sent down,
Strange, solemn, wonderful and dread,
Pageant of living and of dead;—
Thou silent Choir! thou holy shade!
Ye walls, that guard the Martyr's head,
Meet agents are ye to inspire
The lone enthusiast's thought of fire;
High ministers of Alban's fame,
Ye are his tomb, and breathe his name.

XLIII.

And when, enthroned on field of war,
This Abbey's walls are seen afar,
When it's old dark-drawn aisles extend
Upon the light; and, bold and broad,
The central tower is seen t' ascend,
And sternly look their sovereign lord,
We feel again such transports rise,
As fixed that way-worn Palmer's eyes,
When, gaining first the toilsome brow,
Rose to his sight the Shrine below,
When, as he caught it's aspect pale,
He shouted “Alban! Martyr! hail!”
And knelt and wept, and kissed the long-sought ground.

CANTO II. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE FIRST BATTLE.

CANTO III. THE DAY OF THE FIRST BATTLE.

CANTO IV. THE HOUR AFTER THE BATTLE.

CANTO V. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

SCENE—WITHOUT THE WALLS OF ST. ALBAN'S.

CANTO VI. THE EVENING AFTER THE BATTLE.

SCENE—WITHIN THE TOWN AND ABBEY OF ST. ALBAN'S.

CANTO VII. SCENE IN THE MONASTERY.

CANTO VIII. SOLEMN WATCH WITHIN THE ABBEY.

I.

Fitzharding, when his steps withdrew
(Hard triumph gained!) from Richard's view,
Resolved, while through the gallery's shade
Indignantly and sad he strayed,
To learn at once his father's fate,
Nor the securer hour await;
And o'er the aisle he bent to see
If there the Monk, his guide, might be.

II.

Changed was the solemn scene below,
Where monks with stillness, to and fro,
Had borne the dead to place of rest,
Or shrived the spirit, while possest
(Though with so transient potency)
Of frail home of mortality.
Now from the aisles the crowd was gone:
By the death-torch, the Watch-monk lone
Stood dimly o'er the blood-stained bier,
Seeming some shadowy shape of Fear!
While that torch strange, a grisly hue
O'er the dead warrior's visage threw.
Now heavy-falling steps around
No more disturbed the distant ground;
The bearers from their toil reposed;
The cloister's distant door was closed;
From chantry-tomb and chapel nigh
Was sunk the soothing minstrelsy:
All in the aisle was hushed in death,
When Clement ventured from beneath.

III.

He ventured on the secret stair
To warn Fitzharding to beware;
For, 'mong the bands of Richard's host,
Who round the Abbey-porches lay,
Short words, o'erheard at whiles and lost,
Proved, that they watched Lancastrian prey.
Their enemies, they said, had found
Refuge within the Abbey-bound.
Church-law with taunt of scorn they named;
Talked of “good sword” and “Churchman tamed.”
Then earnestly he urged the Knight
To rest in gallery that night.

IV.

Fitzharding paused not, ere he said,
Too long had he the torture proved
Of hope and fear for those he loved,
To suffer any weightier dread.
Concealed he would no longer stay,
But search where dead or wounded lay.
Then asked he if the Monk had seen
A lifeless warrior-chief borne by
St. Hugo's tomb at dusk of e'en,
When priest sung in his chantry nigh.
But Clement at such hour had slept,
Worn out with vigils he had kept.
The chantry-monk, who requiem sung,
Dwelt in St. Julian's subject-cell;
And there had duly gone, when rung
That cell's accustomed evening-bell.

V.

Again the Monk Fitzharding warned,
Dangers unseen might not be scorned;
And there were brothers in the aisle
Would willingly his steps beguile,
If a Lancastrian knight they knew;
But, if he still the worst must dare,
A monkish garment he would spare,
Might shade him slightly from their view.
The Baron liked not frock and hood,
As covering for a spirit brave;
But fully spoke his gratitude,
And, farther, did the watchword crave.

VI.

In earnest speech then craved the Knight
The counter-signal for the night.
“‘Peace be on earth!’ shall be your guide,
And shield you through this Abbey wide;
But if, as knight, you rashly show
Your rank,—though cased from top to toe,
You cannot 'scape the secret hate,
That dwells in our divided state.
Duke Richard's soldiers are abroad;
And where, Sir Knight, is your good sword?”

VII.

Fitzharding, as from dream amazed,
On the disarmed scabbard gazed;
And now, of weapon's aid bereft,
(No other means of safety left)
He yielded to a proffered guise;
And o'er his stately harness threw
The Benedictine draperies
Of ample width and sable hue.
He doffed the plumage from his brow,
But kept the casque of steel below;
O'er which a monkish cowl was thrown,
That hid his visage in it's frown.

VIII.

Clement, ere to the aisle he led,
These parting words of warning said:—
“Now mark the way I bid you go,
And step with prudent care and slow,
For warrior's step may ill agree
With cloistered man's tranquillity.
Pass not athwart the nave, I pray,
Though there may lie your shortest way;
For in the cloister-pier, beside,
Darkling, a watch-monk doth abide;
Nor pass the choir before the shrine,
For, there the wonted tapers shine,
And watchers in the gallery wait,
And guard that place, with solemn state;
But by the shrine of Humphrey march,
Then onward, through the eastern arch
That leads behind St. Alban's bier;
Then through our Lady's Porch, and here
Step quietly, like sandalled man,
Or charnel-monk thy gait will scan.
Our Lady's Shrine go thou not nigh;
The chantry of St. Blaize pass by.
The Altar of four-wax lights shun,
And the East turret's lurking stair;
The Abbey's northern porch beware.
Without, Duke Richard's soldiers wait—
Our guard, or—as may be—our fate!”

IX.

“Then turn thee on King Offa's aisle,
Who, from the roof, shall on thee smile;
Pause not, nor look, till thou hast gained
The Transept at the western end,
Where shrined Amphibalus is laid:—
Then, speed thou to the deeper shade.
But if thy steps are watched, then wend
Where Michael and St. Patern bend,
To guard the northern transept's bound;
Within a turret-stair is found,
That leads to thin arched wall, on high,
Where thou, as here, secure may'st lie.
So fare thee well! I bless thy way,
And will assist thee as I may.”
Ere hasty thanks the Knight could pay,
Clement upon the aisle looked out;
No shape appeared of priest, or scout.
He signed Fitzharding swift away.

X.

Long watched the Monk, where, on the aisle,
The Warrior trod in his dark weed;
Ill might such stalk his rank beguile,
Or figure be for monk's received.
He watched him by Duke Humphrey's tomb,
Where, from the roof's light filagree,
Blazed tapers through the vaulted gloom,
While voices sung his obsequy.
He watched him through the eastern arch,
Where once St. Catherine's story shone;—
The Knight has turned on Mary's Porch,—
The monk is to his pallet gone.

XI.

St. Mary's Porch the Knight has turned;
'Twas well the tomb-lights dimly burned;
They showed not even the windows tall,
That graced, in fretted state, the wall;
Nor yet St. Alban's Chapel there,
His arches pointing fine in air,
Of loftiest grace and beauty rare.
Eastward Fitzharding cast his eye,
Beyond St. Mary's portal high,
That showed her in her distant shrine
Of lily and of eglantine;
Beneath appeared a dismal sight—
Her altar, hung with sable hue,
Where yellow tapers ranged to view,
Shed forth a melancholy light.
Fitzharding sighed, who, all too well,
The language of those lights could spell;
And that of the faint strain, that rose,
With voice of soul, from chapel nigh—
The Sequence for the last repose,
While yet the dead unburied lie!
In silent thought awhile he stood,
With folded arms and shading hood,
And deep moan rent his breast;
Then slowly o'er the gloomy ground
He drew, to catch the nearer sound
Of “Rest—eternal Rest!”

XII.

Sudden, from forth a darkened nook
A dreary voice spoke near, “Beware!”
Then paused, and seemed to say, “Prepare!”
It might have come from grave forsook,
So strange, so thrilling was the tone.
He looked the way that warning came,
Low lying waved a dark red flame;
He saw that dusky torch alone,
Until it's lengthening gleam made known,
How thick the new-made graves were strewn
Beyond. He trembled at this sight,
Musing for whom these graves might wait;
What gallant comrades of the fight,
What friend, what kinsman, here this night
Might come unto his last estate!
The grave all still and patient lay,
As if it knew, though long their stay,
They might not cheat it of it's prey.
Sudden, Fitzharding thought, that here
Would rest, perchance, his father's bier!
With horror struck and deep dismay,
He turned him from this scene away.

XIII.

His step called forth that voice unknown;
It muttered in sepulchral tone,
“Beware! the earth is heaped around;
The graves are opened on this ground!”
Sullen and dim a form appeared,
And the low-lying torch it reared,
Showing a face to him unknown;
It reared the torch, and showed it's own.
A form so tall, so spare and gaunt
Might have been drawn to image Want;
And well the ghastly face supplied
The look of one for food had died:
So livid, pale, so grim, so shrunk,
The visage of this charnel-monk!
Ardent and haggard were his eyes,
And full of evil dark surmise;
Yet gleamed, at whiles, all fiery red,
Just where the cowl its darkness shed.
His figure, draped in weed of woe,
Did a bossed symbol grimly show,
Bones and an eyeless head.
This shape of terror, with no name,
(While on their wormy verge he stood)
As home and empire seemed to claim
The graves, o'er porch and chapel strewed.

XIV.

He held the torch before the Knight;
And, whether glance of helmet bright
From forth his veiling hood might stray,
Or that the cowl so baffling lay,
It seemed suspicion to excite,
He claimed the watchword of the night.
And when Fitzharding said his say,
And from the porch had passed away,
That Monk stood on King Offa's aisle,
With folded arms and steps astride,
And watched him with a lowering smile,
As though he muttered, “Ill betide!”
The gilded spurs, too sure, I ween,
Beneath the Knight's dark skirt were seen.

XV.

Now when Fitzharding reached the end,
Where Mercian Offa from the vault
Looked down, and seemed to bid him halt,
He turned a backward glance to send.
The Monk was gone; but, in his stead,
Leaned forward from a pillar's shade,
A gauntlet hand and helmet head;
Another yet behind stood near,
Who in the gloom might scarce appear,
And cautious gesture made.
Far were they from the guard's last torch,
Just where the Abbey's northern porch
And Mary's Ante-chapel met;
Beyond, Duke Richard's guard was set.

XVI.

Abrupt, then in the shade they drew,
As if to shun Fitzharding's view.
The Baron well bethought him then
Of the Monk Clement's charge:—
“Pause not, nor turn to look again,
Till you have gained the marge,
Where the north aisle and transept join.”
He judged this charge important sign,
And, instant, passed upon the way,
Where the dread nave and transept lay.
As o'er that scene a glance he gave,
Where every tomb and lowly grave
And altar-slab and dim shrine near,
Was now a warrior's bleeding bier,
He checked his step, lest suddenly
Some face beloved he there might see.

XVII.

He had been in the front of war,
Nor ever feared the deadly scar;
Had seen his comrades fall beside,
And shrunk not from the battle's tide;
Intent alone the foe to stem,
He felt not for himself nor them;
But now, when zeal, nor passion, bore
Their wonted sway his thronged mind o'er;
When stilly he might see and know
Each written character of woe;
And view, perchance, some well-known face,
All changed and shrunk from living grace;
Unconquerable dread arose,
To meet what Death might thus disclose!
The animated look—the eye,
That had so oft, all smilingly,
Dwelt on his with a kindly joy,—
How might he view, now stern and dim,
Bend not one beam of soul on him;
Nor turn, at sound of step, or voice,
So oft its signal, to rejoice?

XVIII.

Scarce could Fitzharding's limbs sustain
The burden of his shuddering pain;
He stood, and on a pillar leaned,
While some brief moments intervened.
Brief must they be; for, even then,
Behold! far off in Offa's aisle,
With stealthy step, those armoured men,
Whom he well knew for watchful guile.
Mindful then of the turret near,
Pointed by Clement's prudent fear,
He through the northern transept stept,
Where St. Amphibalus long slept.
In passing by that gorgeous shrine,
He to the watch-monks gave the sign—
“Peace be on earth!” He spake no more;
But sought that little turret's door
Deep in the angle, where it lay
And shaded from the shrine's strong ray.

XIX.

He stood, and watched, some little space,
On the sad threshold of the place;—
That circling stair was still in shade,
By thickness of the old wall made.
But, could he gain the gallery,
The shrine-lights through the tracery,
Darting so high a feeble ray,
Would guide him on the narrow way.
Fitzharding sought that narrow stair,
And trod it's gloomy path with care,
Yet, sometimes, 'gainst the narrow bound
Struck his steeled foot, with startling sound;
His harnessed shoulders broad would graze
The strait walls of these secret ways.
Twice round the newel had he pressed,
When his foot found a level rest.
From high poured forth the midnight air,
Through loop-hole of the turret-stair.
He traced not now the second flight,
For, at short distance on the right,
Faint ray amid the darkness streamed,
And through an arch the gallery gleamed.

XX.

Soon as Fitzharding passed the arch,
He stepped with calm and firmer march,
And backward threw his baffling cowl,
And looked and breathed with freer soul.
But now the narrow gallery
Had nigh his venturous footstep stayed;
The pillars' base so close did lie,
Scarce might he pass behind their shade.
That course of pillars still is seen
Along the massy wall,
With rude, misshapen arch between
Each pillar short and small.
It fronted then the shrine and tomb
Of him, who shared St. Alban's doom.

XXI.

Here might awhile Fitzharding wait
Till Richard's scouts their watch abate;
And, from this transept's southern end,
Above the nave itself might wend
And pass above the western door,
Behind the parapet's high breast;
Thence glance the long, long vista o'er,
To farthest shrine of Mary blessed,
Seen through the pointed arches near,
That rose above St. Alban's bier.
Thus far the Knight may range, and view
The death-scene many a heart shall rue,
The battle's prey—the mighty slain
Stretched out, and watched on marble plain.
Whence then that gallery might go
Around on high, or deep below;
Or leading o'er the cloister walk,
Where the unconscious monk may stalk;
Or to the Abbot's secret room,
Where Richard late decreed his doom;
Or to the inmost cell, wrought there;
Or to deep winding fatal stair—
Few living in the Abbey knew.
For, hidden far from searcher's view,
Was many a flight and passage dim
To vaulted hall and chamber grim;
To crypt and sepulchre and shrine;
And prison cells, that undermine
The cloister-walk, and seem to spread
Almost to lowly Ver's old bed.

XXII.

Just where nave, choir, and transept met,
And Death with splendour was beset,
Fitzharding stood and looked below
O'er all the scene of varied woe.
And thus it lay beneath his sight—
The western aisles were stretched in night,
Save the shrined transept's rays
Threw the full splendour of its blaze
'Thwart the choir-steps and 'slant the nave.
There, every altar-tomb and grave,
As that long line of glory fell,
Showed its dead warrior, all too well.
Before those steps three altars stood
Arranged in row—Oswyn's the good,
St. Thomas, and the sad Marie,
Now 'reft of pomp and imagery.
There priests kept solemn watch around
Three knights, in bleeding armour bound.

XXIII.

The silver censer, burning near,
Sent incense o'er each marble bier;
And poursuivants, in tabard-pride,
Stood mute those warriors beside.
No 'scutcheon blazoned high was there;
But tattered banners on the air,
Sad witness of their master's fate,
Now, as mute mourners, seemed to wait.
Rose not the stately canopy,
With crowded lights, o'er hearse on high;
While troops of mourners, watching round,
Might creep to hear the Requiem sound.
Not such the solemn watch held now,
No lofty hearse—no mourners bow;
Nor blaze of tapers high in air;
Nor likeness of the dead was there.
The dead, each in his arms arrayed,
Exposed to many an eye was laid,
Forsaken save by heralds vain,
Nor mourned, but in the death-priests' strain.

XXIV.

By presence of the state-watch due,
The Knight his dead commander knew;
But, who are those on either hand,
Censed and laid out on altars high?
Nobles they seem of Henry's band,
Whose poursuivants are watching by.
Vainly Fitzharding might assay
To read each visage where it lay,
Or spell the armour, crest, or shield;
Their glimmer only was revealed
By the long slanting ray.

XXV.

The farthest aisles and westward nave,
Where only gleamed upon a grave
A watch-torch dim and lone,
Gave solemn contrast to the choir,
Which beamed as with celestial fire,
Like to half-clouded sun.
From Alban's glorious shrine that light
Streamed through the chancel's gloomy night;
For, though the Abbot's prudent care
Had moved each jewel rich and rare,
Brought far, as pilgrim-offering,
By noble knight, or prince, or king,
Yet, trusting to the love and dread,
That blessed Alban's shrine o'erspread,
It's pillars, laid with golden plate,
Fixed in the pavement, that sustained
The crystal canopy of state
And golden bier, firm-set remained;
And specious show, with truth that vied,
And blazed amid the taper's beams,
The pendent lamps and torch-light gleams,
Was left to soothe the Victor's pride.

XXVI.

That rich and lofty canopy,
With ever-burning lights crowned high,
Supported by four golden towers,
Seemed all within as crystal bowers
Branched o'er his coffin laid beneath;
So richly spread each dazzling wreath!
Below the centre arch of three,
That opened to the chapelry,
Were scrolled, in silent eloquence,
Lines from the dread hymn of sequence,
Where late his golden crown had been;
His priests and monks, in band around,
Watched, patient, o'er the honoured scene,
And Abbey-knights in armour frowned.

XXVII.

St. Cuthbert's Chapel had not lent
Its wide screen then to veil the choir,
Where now it bounds the nave's ascent
With the carved niche and Gothic spire:
Nor rose before St. Alban's shrine,
In lofty state, as now is seen,
The altar's more elaborate screen;
Of fairy-filagree each line,
Web-work each canopy and cell,
Where many an imaged saint might dwell:
Light are the flowery knots, that twine
Round slender columns, clustered vine,
That to the fretwork cornice go,
Where flowers amid the foliage blow
And wheaten sheafs and roses spread,
Spell of the Abbot and the King
Who raised—to guard St. Alban's bed—
This rich and glorious offering.

XXVIII.

Not then this beauteous screen appeared
To hide the bier the pilgrim sought,
And cause the object of his thought
To be more tremblingly revered;
But veil of silk, or cloth of gold,
Hung high and broad in sweeping fold,
On days of chief solemnity.
There only this night might you see
A mourning drapery, like a pall,
With ample grace sweep from the wall,
In solemn memory of the dead,
And half conceal the Martyr's bed;
And seem, like evening-cloud, to throw
Its darkness o'er day's gorgeous brow.

XXIX.

Westward, the nave, in deeper night,
Brought little certain to the sight.
Yet, where upon its lengthen'd gloom
Was seen to glare a fixed torch-light,
There lay a corpse upon a tomb,
Or on some altar's marble pride;
And there a monk sat, close beside.
From one the glittering casque was gone,
Whose wounds made known his fate,
And stood, high-plumed, on altar-stone,
Beside the warrior overthrown,
As though it mocked his state.
And many a dead form, from this height,
Seemed semblance but of marble knight
Extended in his sculptured weed,
With ensigns high of daring deed.
Nay, sometimes, side by side were laid
The substance and the mimic shade,
The marble knight and warrior dead:
Now each alike unconscious lay,
And which was corpse 'twere hard to say!

XXX.

There might be seen, too, side by side,
The slayer and the slain.
Those hostile hands, that shed life's tide,
Still crimsoned with the stain
Of either combatant's last blood,
Now powerless lay, as stone, or wood.
Mute now the voice, whose piercing sound
Had sent dismay o'er distant ground,
Whose high command was loved and feared;
Not even its murmur now was heard.

XXXI.

And there, oh, sight of piteous woe!
Lay gallant sire and son below,
Who, hand and heart, for Henry's right
Did, horse by horse, that morning fight.
And there lay son (oh, thrilling view!)
And father, who each other slew.
Forced by the fate of civil strife,
They struck, unknown, each other's life;—
And, as they sunk, no more to rise,
Each turned on each his dying eyes,
Wailed the sad deed, and mixed their last drawn sighs.

XXXII.

By the north pillars of the nave,
Four dedicated altars stood;
Each bore a victim for the grave,
And now was stained with noble blood:
They faced those arches, sharp and tall,
Where Offa and his beauteous queen,
And Edward of the saintly mien,
And mitred Lanfranc still are seen,
Bending from carved capital,
As watching o'er this mortal scene.
Now, listen; for 'tis fearful all—
All, that beneath Fitzharding's eye
Lay, as he watched in gallery.
He saw monks to this spot draw nigh,
And o'er a pallid figure bend,
And search again, if living breath
Might linger in such shape of death;
Then, silently, the limbs extend;
And—by the glare the torches threw
On the gashed face beneath his view,
Upon St. Scytha's altar laid—
Saw them the countenance compose,
O'er the glazed eye the eye-lid close
For ever—ever! in Death's shade!
And, while he marked that awful sight,
It seemed, by thrill of sympathy,
As if cold fingers did alight
Upon his lids, and on them lie.
A horror ran through all his frame;
But this more painful pang o'ercame—
It seemed to him, that his sight now,
While resting on the form below,
Might view his father laid in death!
With frenzied gaze he sought to know
More certainly the face beneath—
In vain! The torch's wavering glare
To gallery high, through depth of air,
Showed but a wan, dead visage there.

XXXIII.

In very ecstasy of dread
He turned away his straining eyes;
When, near him, through the gallery's shade,
Where faint the altar-beams arise,
A face—the phantom of his fear—
It seemed his father's face were here.
A something like a helmet gleamed,
Figure or substance none there seemed
Amid those shadows deep;
Sad was the look, and ashy pale,
As it would speak some dreadful tale,
Yet must dread secret keep.
Was this a face traced on the eye
From the brain's fiery ecstasy?
A vision sent to warn him, now,
That his dead father lay below?
A trace of soul—a look alone—
A likeness, but as wrought in stone—
So fixed, so absent, and so wan,
Was all that met Fitzharding's sight,
In glimpse, through shadows of the night;
When soft the requiem from afar,
Breathed blessedness upon the air,
And at the sound it seemed to fade,
And vanish in the distant shade.

XXXIV.

Long gazed the Knight where it had been.
Such look of woe he once had seen
Dwelling upon his father's mien.
Long gazed he on the dusky space;
Then drew the cowl upon his face,
And closer folded his dark weed,
And strove that phantasie to read.
Then, bending o'er that gallery,
He sought, once more, the face to see,
So wan in death, below
Features came faintly to his eyes;
But memory, more than sight, supplies
His father's reverend brow.

XXXV.

To end, at once, his torturing dread,
He straight resolved to quit the shade;
When, lo! from forth King Offa's aisle,
With look and step of cautious guile,
He marked two armoured men draw near,
And rest them by that warrior's bier.
So frowned the helmets he had seen
From shade of that aisle's pillar lean;
So bloomed the white-thorn for their crest;
So gleamed the badge upon their breast.
He knew them for the enemy,
And guessed they meant him treachery:
But, wherefore by that bier stood they?
Was it a Yorkist there that lay?

XXXVI.

They bent, and gazed some little space
Upon the warrior's deathy face.
Fitzharding watched if they might show
Gesture of triumph, or of woe.
Steadfast they stood with bended head,
Nor speech, nor gesture ventured.
Then did the Baron surely know
The warrior had not been their foe.
A Yorkist thus, it seemed, lay here;
And, losing his most pressing fear,
He judged it prudent now to stay,
Till passed Duke Richard's scouts away.
And oft he marked them watch around,
And draw within the shaded ground.

XXXVII.

In solemn memory of the dead
Now from the choir the low notes spread
Of midnight dirge and requiem;
And to Fitzharding might they seem
As hymn of some angelic band,
Who on those honoured towers might stand
To guide the spirit from below,
And soothe with hope the mourner's woe.
But, hark! a full and deeper sound
Now answers from the cloister's bound!
Soon as that mournful chaunt was heard,
A gloom o'er all the choir appeared;
While slowly o'er the high shrine fell
The foldings of the funeral veil,
Placed for the warriors' obsequy,
And dropped, at midnight Dirige!

XXXVIII.

Murmuring far, where vaults unclose,
The melancholy strain arose.
The gallery where Fitzharding stood
Fronted that cloister's northern door:
Not one of heavy carved wood,
With scroll ill-fancied covered o'er;
But that most richly carved and light,
With slender stems and foliage dight,
As 'broidered with true leaf and flower,
And traced with Gothic pointings tall,
And canopied with fretwork small.
Issuing beneath this mitred-arch,
The fathers held their solemn march;
Where the long vista-walk withdrew,
Their taper lights gave them to view,
And played upon the vaulted roof,
And showed each fretted line aloof;
There stood the tabernacled Saint,
Blessing the porch. Each corbeil quaint
With it's carved visage, looking down
On all, who passed the arch below,
With smile fantastic, or with frown,
From under helmed, or mitred brow,—
Was graved in light and shade so strong,
Where the gleam waving passed along,
That, as the fleeting shadows roved,
You would have thought the features moved.

XXXIX.

The fathers came with solemn dirge
And midnight chauntings for the dead;
And, as they on the aisle emerge,
Sudden their lifted tapers shed
Long gleams upon each altar-bier,
And showed the warrior resting near.
Each monk, as to the choir he passed,
A glance on the dead soldier cast.
How various was the countenance,
Thus lighted by the taper's glance!
But, oh! that words each line might trace
Of that appealing look of grace,
(But words may not that glimpse define,)
Which beamed from many a passing eye
Of the cowled throng then crowding by—
The look, that would to Heaven resign
Each object of its sympathy!

XL.

While the choir-steps the train ascend,
The silver censers steam on high;
On them with frankincense attend
The Prior and Sub-Prior nigh.
(The aged Abbot stood not by.)
They paused upon the marble bound,
Where now St. Cuthbert's screen is found,
And, ranging in half-circle round,
O'er princely Somerset laid low,
Their hundred lights, raised high, appear
A curve of flame, wide round the bier;
And they, to organ's solemn flow,
Sang Dirige and Placebo.
Whene'er their mourning voices fell,
Stern spoke above the sudden knell,
And then the farthest choir's reply
Came murmuring, till, with finest swell,
The loud notes filled the vaults on high,
With grand and mournful harmony;
And these the words that hymned by.

XLI.

XLII.

While rose this chorus soft and slow,
The Knight, in trance of deepest woe,
Listened till all was still below.
And long, it seemed, that pious strain
Lingered below each vaulted roof,
And died, in murmurs far aloof,
Lulling the first keen sense of pain.
Silent, the watching Warrior grieved;
Tears dimmed his manly eye,
While the close corslet frequent heaved
With many a deep-drawn sigh.

CANTO IX. AMONG THE DEAD.

CANTO X. AMONG THE DEAD.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

SALISBURY PLAINS.

STONEHENGE.

SHAKSPEARE'S CLIFF.

THE FISHERS.

STEEPHILL.

IN THE NEW FOREST.

ON A FIRST VIEW OF THE GROUP CALLED THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS;

IN THE APPROACH TO COLOGNE FROM XANTEN.

When first I saw ye, Mountains, the broad sun
In cloudy grandeur sunk, and showed, far off,
A solemn vision of imperfect shapes
Crowding the southward sky and stalking on
And pointing us “the way that we should go.”
Dark thunder-mists dwelt on ye; and your forms,
Obscurely towering, stood before the eye,
Like some strange thing portentous and unknown.
I watched the coming storm. The sulphurous gloom
Clung sullenly round me, and a dull tinge
Began to redden through these mournful shades.
A low imperfect murmur o'er ye rolled.
Doubtful, I listened. On the breathless calm
Again I heard it—then, ye Mountains vast,
Amid the tenfold darkness ye withdrew,
And vanished quite, save that your high tops smoked,
And from your clouds the arrowy lightnings burst,
While peals resistless shook the trembling world!—

A SECOND VIEW OF THE SEVEN MOUNTAINS.

ON ASCENDING A HILL CROWNED WITH A CONVENT.

NEAR BONN.

THE SNOW-FIEND.

Hark! to the Snow-Fiend's voice afar
That shrieks upon the troubled air!
Him by that shrilly call I know—
Though yet unseen, unfelt below—
And by the mist of livid grey,
That steals upon his onward way.
He from the ice-peaks of the North
In sounding majesty comes forth;
Dark amidst the wondrous light,
That streams o'er all the northern night.
A wan rime through the airy waste
Marks where unseen his car has past;
And veils the spectre-shapes, his train,
That wait upon his vengeful reign.
Disease and Want and shuddering Fear
Danger and Woe and Death are there.
Around his head for ever raves
A whirlwind cold of misty waves.
But oft, the parting surge between,
His visage, keen and white, is seen;
His savage eye and paly glare
Beneath a helm of ice appear;
A snowy plume waves o'er the crest,
And wings of snow his form invest.
Aloft he bears a frozen wand;
The ice-bolt trembles in his hand;
And ever, when on sea he rides,
An iceberg for his throne provides.
As, fierce, he drives his distant way,
Agents remote his call obey,
From half-known Greenland's snow-piled shore
To Newfoundland and Labrador;
O'er solid seas, where nought is scanned
To mark a difference from land,
And sound itself does but explain
The desolation of his reign;
The moaning querulous and deep,
And the wild howl's infuriate sweep
Where'er he moves, some note of woe
Proclaims the presence of the foe;
While he, relentless, round him flings
The white shower from his flaky wings.
Hark! 'tis his voice:—I shun his call,
And shuddering seek the blazing hall.
O! speak of mirth; O! raise the song!
Hear not the fiends, that round him throng
Of curtained rooms and firesides tell,
Bid Fancy work her genial spell,
That wraps in marvel and delight
December's long tempestuous night;
Makes courtly groups in summer bowers
Dance through pale Winter's midnight hours;
And July's eve its rich glow shed
On the hoar wreath, that binds his head;
Or knights on strange adventure bent,
Or ladies into thraldom sent;
Whatever gaiety ideal
Can substitute for troubles real.
Then let the storms of Winter sing,
And his sad veil the Snow-Fiend fling,
Though wailing lays are in the wind,
They reach not then the 'tranced mind;
Nor murky form, nor dismal sound
May pass the high, enchanted bound!

AN ANCIENT BEECH-TREE. IN THE PARK, AT KNOLE.

THE WOODLAND NYMPH.

SEA-VIEWS.

MIDNIGHT.

TO THE SWALLOW.

FOREST LAWNS.

ON THE RONDEAU, “JUST LIKE LOVE IS YONDER ROSE.”

DECEMBER'S EVE, ABROAD.

DECEMBER'S EVE, AT HOME.

A SEA-VIEW.

And thus th' enchantress on the daily path
Of Youth attends, known only by her power
Unseen, and conjures up Hope, Joy and Bliss,
To dance in the fresh bowers of fadeless spring.
At Reason's touch the airy dream dissolves;
We gaze, and wonder at such wild delusion,
Yet weep its loss, and court its forms again.
Hail, beauteous scenes of Fairie, Fancy's world!
Where Truth, so cold and colourless, comes not,
Or far away in lonely grandeur stands,
Like the great snowy Alps, whose cloudy shapes
And aspect stern (deforming the horizon),
Make the still landscape, spread below, appear
More green, more gay, more cheering to our view.
Hail, beauteous scenes of Fairie, Fancy's world!
And now, as if the spell had worked again,
The stormy shade far distant floats away.
Again the spired city shines in light,
Peering beyond the waves, here shadowed yet
By the lingering storm. The pier outstretches
Its arm to meet us, and the light-house shows
Its column, and we see the lanthorn high,
Suspended o'er the margin of the tide,
The star of the night-wandering mariner.
Hail, cheering port, first vision of the land,
Vision, but not illusion, hail again!

ON HAYLEY'S LIFE OF COWPER.

WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF WIGHT.

SONNET TO THE LARK.

Sweet lark! I hear thy thrilling note on high,
The note of rapture, that thy bosom pours
To Spring's fresh gales, green plains and azure sky,
As o'er the mountains steal Morn's blushing hours.
With silent step they come and meekened grace,
In twilight's veil half-hid from mortal view,
Wafting rich fragrance through the crystal space,
O'er groves and valleys shedding April dew.
Gay bird! now all the woods in silence sleep,
How sweet thy music comes upon the air,
And dies at distance, as, up heaven's blue steep,
Thou, lessening, soar'st to meet Aurora's star!
Oh! bird of hope and joy, thou point'st the way
That I would go—high o'er life's cloudy day!

ON READING THE FOLLOWING BEAUTIFUL LINES, WRITTEN BY THE LATE LADY ELIZABETH LEE, SISTER OF EARL HARCOURT,

IN A BOWER CALLED BY HER NAME, AT ST. LEONARD'S HILL, THE SEAT OF THE EARL, IN WINDSOR FOREST; A SEAT WHICH STRANGERS ARE SOMETIMES PERMITTED TO VIEW.

TO THE RIVER DOVE.

THE SEA-MEW.

TO THE WINDS.

Spirit! who dwellest in the secret clouds,
Unseen, unknown, yet heard o'er all the world!
Who reign'st in storms and darkness half the year,
Yet sometimes lov'st, in Summer's season bright,
To breathe soft music through her azure dome:
Oft heard art thou amongst the high tree-tops,
In mournful and so sweet a melody,
As though some Angel, touched with human grief,
Soothed the sad mind. Oh, viewless, viewless wind!
I love thy potent voice, whether in storms
It gives to thunder clouds their impulse dread,
Swells the Spring airs, or sighs in Autumn's groves,
Mourning the dying leaf. Whate'er the note,
Thy power entrances, wins me from low cares,
And bears me towards God, who bids you breathe,
And bids the morning of a higher world
Dawn on my hopes.

MOONLIGHT.

A SCENE.

SMILES.

THE REED OF POESY.

EDWY.

A POEM, IN THREE PARTS.

I. PART I. THE HAZEL TREE.

A SUMMER SONG OF FAIRIE.

II. PART II. THE FAIRIE COURT.

A SUMMER'S NIGHT IN WINDSOR PARK.

III. PART III. THE MAGIC MIRRORS.

A SUMMER NIGHT IN WINDSOR FOREST.

SCENE ON THE NORTHERN SHORE OF SICILY.