The poetical works of Henry Alford :: :: University of Virginia Library

With pale ray—for she hath no fellow yet—
The eve-star shineth out above the west;
The sheep-bell tinkles, and the fold is set;
The swinkt kine, one by one, are laid to rest;
The rooks have ceased from chattering in their nest;
And shepherds whistle homeward through the gray
And misty flats, where from the elm-wood's breast
Forth rise, empurpled with the parting day,
The dim embattled tops of solemn Muchelnaye.

II

Before the rosy streak had vanishèd
From the last cloud that looked upon the sun,
In yonder abbey-pile the mass was said,
The psalm was chanted, and the vespers done:

The holy men are singly pent each one
In chamber climbed by solitary stair;
And he who laboured in far fields alone
Late passing, hears upon the twilight air
Tu, Jesu, salva me—their deep and secret prayer.

III

The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone,
But now he laid his sacred vestment by,
And leaned his crosier on the fretted stone;
He prayeth not, but out into the sky
He looketh forth with wild and dreamful eye,
Under the quatre-foils of many hues
Carved in the clustered mullions broad and high;
Full sorrowfully seems his heart to muse,
And fetches other sighs than holy abbots use.

IV

Belike he hath called up his youthful days,
Before he gave his soul to wait on Heaven,
When his steps wandered into downward ways;
And he has thought of sins to be forgiven,
Like thunder-strokes athwart his conscience riven;
But all the fond admissions of his youth
Long since by prayer and penance have been shriven;
And he hath offered up, in shame and sooth,
His sad and peccant soul at the bright shrine of Truth.

V

But he hath much to do with earthly sighs;
There is a vision of pure loveliness,
Linked to a thousand painful memories

That sear his inner soul with deep distress;
He kneeleth to his prayer, but not the less
That rising sorrow will not be represt:
He prayeth, but his lot he may not bless;
He drops his arms, erewhile that crossed his breast,
And counsels how his sad heart he may lighten best.

VI

Yet time has been when he was bold and gay,
A boy of open brow and lordly mien;
Him on his proud steed, at the rise of day,
First in the field his father's hills have seen,
To rouse the forest deer; and time has been
When he hath whispered words in lady's bower,
And wandered not alone in sward-paths green,
What time he wooed and won, in luckless hour,
The high-born Lady Agnes of St Dunstan's tower.

VII

One life-consuming thought his peace destroys;
Before his memory pass in wild array,
As they have passed full often, all the joys
That rose and set upon his bridal day;
Oh, might he see that priest, who could betray
The secret trusted to his troth to keep,
And could that morn the solemn service say
With inward plot of treachery dark and deep;—
But let him rest—for vengeance will not alway sleep.

VIII

That form of saintly beauty, robed in white,
With yielded hand; his heart in bliss intense

High-throbbing with the triumph of delight;
Those downward eyes of maiden innocence;
That first sweet look of wedded confidence;—
And then the armèd grasp, the short reply,—
The dizzy swoon that feetered all his sense;—
The waking underneath the portal high,
In the faint glimmering light, with pale monks standing by.

IX

He hath had power; but, all athirst for love,
He passed it by, and tasted not: the earth
Each summer-tide, in meadow and in grove,
Teemed with the riches of her yearly birth;—
High music and the sounds of holy mirth,
Evening and morning, fell upon his ear;—
But all this, heard or seen, was nothing worth,
So there were wanting one sweet voice to cheer;
Were this his Eden ground, he finds no helpmate here.

X

His not “the sickening pang of hope deferred,”
Nor calm dismission of a treasure lost,
But anguish deep, unwritten and unheard,
Of the full heart amidst fulfilment crost;
When most assured, then downward smitten most.
Yet did the lamp of love burn upward bright;
Yet did the flame, though by fierce tempest tost,
With ever-constant and consoling light
In solitude pierce through his spirit's darkest night.

XI

His waking thoughts with sorrow trafficked most:
But when the gentle reign of sleep began,
Then through a varied and uncounted host
Of pleasant memories his free fancy ran;
Sometimes the heavenly harps their strain began,
Responsive quiring to each angel-hand;
And brightest throned amidst the high divan,
Sweetest in voice of all the sainted band,
Was she—his wedded spouse—the glory of that land.

XII

Sometimes through twilight fields or summer grove
They went in converse; and the wondrous power
Of world-creation viewed by light of love;
Sometimes he saw her with a blessèd dower
Of fairest children, and each little flower
Grow into beauty, and its station keep
Around their common life;—thus the night-hour
Would pass dream-hallowed, and then faithless sleep
Steal from his widowed couch, and he would wake and weep.

CANTO THE SECOND.

I

It is the solemn midnight; and the moon
Hard by the zenith holds her solemn state,
And yon flushed star will westward dip full soon
Behind the elms that gird the abbey-gate;—
There stair and hall are drear and desolate;

And even Devotion doth her votaries spare,
Save the appointed ones on Heaven that wait,
Wafting upon the hushed unlistening air
Tu, Jesu, salva nos—their deep and night-long prayer.

II

In low flat lines the slumbering dew-mist broods
Along the reaches of the Parret-stream;
And on the far-off vales and clustered woods
Dwells, like the hazy daylight of a dream;
Piled over which, the dusky mountains seem
As a new continent, whose headlands steep
Within his day's fair voyage now doth deem
Some mariner, whose laden vessels creep
Across the dim white level of the severing deep.

III

In the mid prospect, from its shadowy screen
Rises the abbey-pile; each pinnacle
Distinct with purest light; save where, dark green,
The ivy-clusters round some buttress dwell,
The sharp and slender tracery varying well;
Perfect the group, and to poetic gaze
Like a fair palace, by the potent spell
Of old magician summoned from the haze,
Some errant faery knight to wilder with amaze.

IV

But list! the pendant on the wicket-latch
Hath rung its iron summons; and the sight

Through the uncertain shadowings may catch
A muffled figure, as of some lone wight
Belated in the flats this summer night,
And seeking refuge in the abbey near:
Again those strokes the slumbering band affright,
And cause the wakeful choir, in doubt and fear,
To pause amid their chant, and breathless bend to hear.

V

Slow moves the porter, heavy with the load
Of age and sleep; some newly happened ill,—
Some way-side murder,—doth his heart forebode;
And at the wicket come, he pauseth still,
And on his brow the icy drops distil;
Till a faint voice admission doth implore;
“Open, blest fathers, the night-damps are chill;
So may your abbot's holy aid restore
One whose life falters now at death's uncertain door.”

VI

The smaller wicket first he inward turns
For caution and assurance; then as slow
By the dim taper-light that flickering burns,
Scans well the stranger, whether friend or foe;
Then stooping draws the massy bolt below,
Well satisfied that such a form as stands
Before him now no treachery can know,
Can bear no weapon in those trembling hands,
Nor be the wily scout of nightly prowling bands.

VII

A holy woman is it, who desires

Speech with the abbot's reverence: “For fear
Of God in heaven, who each one's life requires
At each one's brother's hand, call thou him here,
Or point me where he rests, that I may clear
My soul of that wherewith I am in trust;
For she who sent me to her end is near:
And who shall make amendment, or be just,
When the pale eye hath mingled with its kindred dust?”

VIII

“Sister,—for by thy russet garb I guess
Thou art of yonder saintly company
Whose frequent hymns our holy Mother bless,
Borne hither from St Mary's Priory,
Hard is it for one chilled with age like me
To do thine urgent bidding; close behind
The landing of yon steep stair dwelleth he
Of whom thou speakest; sleep doth seldom bind
His eyelids; wakeful unto prayer thou shalt him find.”

IX

Up the strait stair the long-robed figure glides,
The while the aged man his taper's light
Trims, and with friendly voice the stranger guides,
Till the dark buttress hides her from his sight;
And then he peers abroad into the night,
Crossing himself for fear of aught unblest;
For sprites and fairies, when the moon is bright,
Weave their thin dances on the meadow's breast,
And sharp rays pierce the tombs, and rouse the dead from rest.

X

He looks not long,—for down the stairs of stone
Footsteps are sounding, and from forth the pile
Passes the stranger, but not now alone.
“Here, brother Francis, let thy keys a while
Rest in my keeping; I will thee assoil
From aught that in mine absence may befall;
So wilt thou spare thyself thy watch and toil
For my return; my blessing guards ye all;
For I must forth, when sorrow for my help doth call.”

XI

The abbot speaks; and they two glide along
In the dim moonlight, till the meadow haze
Enwraps them from the sight: the trees among,
And down the windings of the gleamy ways
They pass; and cross the Parret-stream, ablaze
With flickering ripples; then they track the moor,
Even till they reach St Mary's Priory;
Ere which, the dark-robed stranger goes before,
And without speech admits them through a lowly door.

XII

It is a humble chamber; and a group
Of holy sisters, in their work of love,
Over some prostrate form are seen to stoop,
And in the feeble glimmering slowly move;
And now the abbot sees, bending above,
One stretched in anguish on the pavement there;
In wild unrest her white arms toss and rove;
On the dark floor is spread her tangled hair,
And with convulsive gasps she draws the sounding air.

XIII

But see, she beckons, and he draweth near;
Again she beckons; and that sisterhood
Slowly retreat from what they may not hear;
The last is gone;—and now, with life endued,
The abbot's form that lady rose and viewed;
“Sir monk, I am not as I seem this hour!”
He trembles—nay, let no chill doubt intrude—
It is, it is—thine own, thy bride, thy flower,
The high-born Lady Agnes of St Dunstan's tower!

CANTO THE LAST.

I

“Here is no place for greeting: fly afar
Before the absent sisterhood return.
In my well-sembled agony, yon star
I watched, whose westering rays now faintly burn:
It symbols forth my fate; and wouldst thou learn
What bodes this meeting, ere it dips below
The mountain-range which thou canst just discern,
Safe refuge must be won; for as we go,
Shining, it bodeth joy: but sunken, tears and woe.”

II

She speaks, and forth into the gleamy night
They pass together; dim and ill-defined
Their thoughts;—now wandering with the mazy light
Of the wan moon, now with the moaning wind.
Thus do great issues of a sudden joined

Benumb men's spirits; who in thrall endure
Waiting the judgment of the ordering mind,
Who clears the vision with her influence pure,
And lights up memory's lamps along the steep obscure.

III

But whither shall they fly?—the night's high noon
Hath past, and she is faint and weary grown:
“Lady, the abbey-gate is reached full soon:
There can I hide thee; in those towers of stone
Are secret chambers kenned by me alone,
Where I can tend thee, while the coming day
Shall bring thee rest; then when its light hath flown,
Mine be it, in maturer thought, to say
How we may shape our course to regions far away.”

IV

With hurried steps to gain those towers they press;
But ere they reached them, had that lady's sight
Not earthward drooped for very weariness,
She might have seen that clear symbolic light
First fainter wane, then vanish from the night.
The other marked its dying radiance well;
But he was one whom omens could not fright:
But, 'spite his better judgment, sooth to tell,
Faintness struck through his heart, and broke joy's rapturous spell.

V

The abbot sitteth in his chamber lone,
And by him sits the lady of his love;
The crosier leans upon the fretted stone,

Swept by the sacred vestment from above:
He prayeth not—for he can never move
His fond eyes from that lovely lady's brow;
Whose downcast looks seem gently to reprove
The scheme that riseth in their wishes now,
To doff the saintly veil, and break the chartered vow.

VI

They gaze upon each other earnestly,
Scarce daring to discover but in look
What each might read of in the other's eye.
Belike ye wonder, what such question shook
The firm resolve that erst their spirits took;—
In sooth, God's vows were on them both; but yet
The first law in the heaven-descended book,
Firmer that veil or chartered vow, is set;
Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet.

VII

Oh, who can sound the depth of human joy,
The fathomless tranquillity of bliss!
Clear shine the eyes, when in their calm employ
They scan some form which they have wept to miss;
Quick through the being thrills the mystic kiss
Of wife, or clinging child; light pass the days
Though sad, with such to cheer; and sweet it is
To sit, and even unto tears to gaze
On flowers which Love hath given to bloom beside our ways.

VIII

Long hours have flown, to wedded rapture given;

And now upon the dusk and dawning air,
Which murmurs, with its quick shrill pulses riven,
The matin bell sounds forth, calling to prayer,
The abbey-brotherhood and hamlets near:
Then spoke the abbot: “Part we for an hour;
Then follow me into a refuge near,
A hiding-place within this solid tower,
Known but to those who here have held this highest power.”

IX

He leadeth her a dark and narrow way,
Along the windings of that hidden stair;
They might see nothing of the rising day,
Until that he had brought his lady dear
Unto a chamber, rudely fashioned, near
The top roof of the abbey-pile, and lit
By one small window, where the hour of prayer
Secure from rude intrusion she might sit,
And watch the morning clouds along the landscape flit.

X

“Say ye she left Saint Mary's Priory
This night?—perchance she roameth in the glade,
Or seeketh some lone cottage wearily:
Strict search for her in this our abbey made
Hath found no trace; each hiding-place displayed
Shows no such tenant: and our holy chief
Tells how he left her on your pavement laid,
What time she sunk exhausted by her grief,
After confession gave her prisoned woes relief.”

XI

Past is all peril now—the search is done,
Past the spare meal, and spent the hour of prayer;
The holy men are singly pent each one
In chamber climbed by solitary stair:
And quickly as the anxious lover dare
He seeks with throbbing heart that nest secure:
“Rejoice, my wedded love, my life, my fair!
Our way is straight, our course is safe as pure,
Our life of love and joy from disappointment sure.”

XII

He found her,—as ye find some cherished bud
Of early primrose, when the storm is past,
Crushed by the vexing of the tempest flood;—
Prostrate and pale she lay, for Death had cast
His Gorgon spell upon her: thick and fast
The abbot's bursting heart did upward beat.
A while benumbed he stood: Reason at last
Fled with the wild crash from her central seat,
And all his soul within him burned with maddening heat!

XIII

Three hundred years, above the tall elm-wood
One ivied pinnacle hath signified
The place where once the abbey-pile hath stood.
A hundred years before, the abbot died,—
A man of many woes: one summer-tide
They found his coffin in the churchyard-wall;
And when they forced the stony lid aside,

Gazed on his face beneath the mouldered pall,
Even as the spirit left it—pale and tear-worn all.

XIV

And often, down that dark and narrow way,
Along the windings of that hidden stair,
Sweeps a dim figure, as the rustics say,
And tracks the path even to the house of prayer:
What in the dusky night it doeth there,
None may divine, nor its return have met;
Only, upon the hushed and listening air
Strange words, as men pass by, are sounding yet:
Quos Deus junxit, homo ne quis separet!

Muchelney—“the great island”—is a village in the moors of Somersetshire, two miles south-west of Langport. There are the remains of a Benedictine abbey, founded by King Athelstan. The buildings are of the later Gothic, or perpendicular style.

Wearied.

The river Parret, which, rising in the Dorsetshire hills, flows across the moors of Somersetshire, and empties itself into the Bristol Channel, below Bridgewater.

Its ruins yet remain, within sight of the abbey at Muchelney, just across the river.