Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (265 page)

XX.

With pious thought and tranced eye,
St. Alban’s Monk, from turret high,
Beheld in silent order rise
Tint after tint on th’ eastern skies:
First, cold rays edged the night’s black shroud
Then rose, then amber, changed the hue;
Then slowly purpled the soft cloud,
That stretched along the upper blue;
Where, hanging o’er its shadowy throne,
The star of Morning watched alone;
But soon more gorgeous tints appear,
And tell the mighty Sun is near;
Till he looked joyous o’er yon brow,
While slumbering War lay stretched below,
Whose shrine shall dying thousands stain,
Ere that gay Sun look up again!

XXI.

War’s grisly visage there was seen,
Engarlanded with May’s fair buds;
His couch — her meads of springing green,
His canopy — her fresh-leaved woods!
Her fragrant airs around him breathe,
Her music soothes his dream beneath.
But soon May’s blooms their snows shall yield,
By hostile struggle lowly laid;
And soon her young and lightsome shade
Shall hide the blood-stained casque and shield,
Now thrown in wilder’d flight away:
And many a tortured wretch that day,
‘Scaped from the battle’s mortal strife, -
To scenes of Nature’s peace shall hie;
And, while all round is breathing life,
Sink on some flowery bank and die!

XXII.

The Monk might, at this hour of dawn,
Have traced each army faintly drawn,
Through dewy veil, on hills around;
And viewed St. Alban’s glimmering bound
All rich with blooming orchard ground,
Where crowded roofs and turrets lay
Obscurely on the brightening grey.
How dark and still the Martyr’s tower
Stood on the reddening dawn on high;
How solemn was the look it wore,
The peace of age and sanctity!
Till each dark line stood sharp and clear,
On gold and crimson streaks of air.
Flowing upon the early breeze,
The Royal banner WARWICK sees
Wave homage to the rising beams!
And, while that banner lightly streams,
With scornful eyes he viewed the town,
“There will I rule ere sun go down!”

XXIII.

The Knight and Monk, who watched on high,
Beheld these rising beams with joy;
And lost, with joy, the beacon’s flame,
For now relief of Warder came.
Scarce would the warrior pause to tell,
That all near Alban’s wall was well;
Or change a word of what had been
From his high station heard, or seen.
And, with the chilling hour oppressed,
Jerome, too, sought some welcome rest,
And left, exchanged, a monk behind,
To shiver in the breezy wind.

CANTO III
.

I.

THE day had risen; the song of Prime
Swelled soft, as ceased the second chime;
When now was heard a distant drum
Through the woodlands high to come;
And, fierce though faint, one trumpet-blast
Hurrying upon the light wind passed.
It was not fancy— ‘twas not fear,
That caused those glittering helms appear,
And triple-glance of marshalled spear,
Upon the high wood’s shadowy side;
‘Tis there the barbed coursers ride;
And, mid the light-leaved shadows go
The battle-axe and lance and bow;
And banners bright and pennons fair
Bicker upon the fretful air.
Now, down St. Stephen’s woody steep,
The warlike bands due order keep,
Winding in glimpses to his eye
Who watched from under hood, on high,
And sadly lost all doubt, in fear;
While now the larum-bell he rung,
And now o’er battlement he hung,
Viewing the lengthened train draw near;
“Ten thousand, — less there could not be;
Ten thousand of the enemy
And thousands yet he might not see!

II.

His glad companion smiling heard
The panic marvels of his word;
But all in vain he promised good,
Though, as they flashed from Julian’s wood,
The knight well knew those armed bands,
And brandished high his gauntlet-hands,
And shouted welcomes on the gale,
Live — live King Henry — Henry hail!”
And waved his banner on the wall,
Urging the loud, rejoicing call,
“Live — live King Henry — Henry hail!”
Till his parched lips and utterance fail.

IN.

And then was heard the various pace
Of young and old, in toilsome race
Up galleried wall and winding flight,
Aiming to reach this topmost height.
But soon th’ embattled roofs below
Proclaim, that few may gain this brow;
For, resting there in sable row,
Many a brother breathless stood
With pointing hand and falling hood,
Gazing upon the vision dread
Of warlike force, that hither sped.

IV.

Now, loud King Henry’s clarions sound,
The many-trampling hoofs rebound,
As, issuing from St. Stephen’s shade
Upon the near and sunny glade,
Blazoned shields and helmets gleam,
While light the red-rose banners stream;
And knights on barbed coursers bear
Their monarch’s standard through the air.
And gentle Henry might you know,
Though harnessed close from top to toe.
Before him, herald-trumpets sound,
Proud chiefs and nobles press the ground;
And, where his ordered thousands throng,
Winding the woods and vale along,
Each bannered knight, as he drew nigh,
Was seen to lead his vassal-band,
With statelier march and aspect high,
Expressive of supreme command,
Though courting kindly gesture from his Sovereign
hand.

V.

Loud and more loud the trumpets call,
As they draw nigh St. Alban’s wall;
And other trumpets answer clear,
And “Live King Henry!” rends the air
From every guarded barrier.
Straight, at the sound, in street below,
The thronging shield and helmet go,
While busy knights their men array,
To line their Monarch’s onward way,
The vanguard, that, on yesternight,
Watched here, upon St. Alban’s height.
Above, each roof and lattice showed
A fearful and a curious crowd,
Though forced within their homes to stay,
Hoping for glorious wonders, on that day.

VI.

And now adown the street appear,
With better banners, high on air,
The Martyr’s sons in wondering fear,
With chaunted anthems, grave and sweet,
Pacing their Sovereign lord to meet.
The Abbot is not now arrayed,
As he was wont, to meet his lord;
His brow no jewelled pomp displayed,
Nor from his shoulders now floats broad
The scarlet cope, nor robe of gold,
Nor the rich velvet’s shadowy fold.
But he, enwrapt in woeful weed,
Suiting his habit to the time,
In sorrowing penance seems to plead
Forgiveness for some hidden crime,
That threatened to draw judgment down
Even on St. Alban’s shrine and town.
But pages hold his mourning train,
As when arrayed in robe more vain,
And all his officers of state
In order due around him wait;
While, marching on the crowded way,
His Abbey-knights their band display.

VII.

Far down the steep of Holywell,
The chaunted anthem rose and fell;
Soon as was heard the solemn song,
And seen the dark advancing throng;
That busy street, then closely pressed,
With bow and pike and demi-lance,
Where charger reared, where waved high crest,
Was hushed, at once, as if in trance;
The crowd fell back, in order grave,
Ere Abbot’s guard the signal gave,
And, as the Abbey-Choir went by,
In reverend row you there might see
Each warrior on his bended knee.,
With upward and beseeching eye.
And thus, through files of lance and spear,
The pious fathers, without fear,
On to the southern barrier move
Safe in due reverence and love.

VIII.

And now within the barrier wall
St. Alban’s sons await their King.
And hark! what nearer clarions ring!
What shouts around each turret call
“King Henry live! — King Henry live!
Every Saint a blessing give;
King Henry live! — King Henry live!
Abbot and Prior blessings give.”
Then burst the loud, acclaiming voice
From battlements and towers aloof,
From cottage-thatch and lordly roof,
Of all, who in due rule rejoice.

IX.

Then, first from forth the barrier-arch
Deep and dark, in solemn march,
The Herald-trumpets come;
Their blazoned coats and pageantry
And banners beam upon the eye,
Like sudden blaze of witchery
From depth of midnight gloom.
Behind, a pale and gleaming band,
As if by glance of moonlight shown,
Stalked, in silence, hand by hand,
With threatening crest and visor’s frown;
The stately forms of men unknown,
In cold dead steel anatomized,
As in Death’s very image ‘guised.

X.

Following this heavy march were seen,
On the armed charger’s stately sheen,
Many a Baron’s youthful son,
By lofty SOMERSET led on.
With stately step his courser trod;
His casque the British lion strode;
The triple plume was nodding by;
Through the barred visor might you spy
The warrior’s dark and fiery eye,
Though not the mien his visage bore.
Proud was his air, his stature high.
Above his ringed mail he wore
Coat-armour, blazoned bright with sign
Of princely birth and Henry’s line,
And ‘broidered with devices fair;
Portcullis-bars in gold were t ere.
Two Squires, beside his stirrups, bear
His shield and axe and new-shod spear.
There marched in stately grace before,
With trumpets that high summons gave,
His Poursuivant, Portcullis grave,
And Henchmen next, some demi-score.
Fearless, he sought the battle-hour;
Here he beheld not castle-tower,
And well he knew the prophecy,
That under castle he must die.

XI.

Behind, as far as eye might go,
Paced barbed steeds and banners slow,
Till Henry’s standard stooped below
The barrier-arch, and borne along
By royal Banner Knights a throng;
So heavy was the ample fold,
That hardly could the knights unfold
The crimson silk and blazoned gold.
Again came Heralds, four abreast,
With blazoned arms and yellow vest,
Sounding their silver trumpets sweet,
While silver drums before them beat.
Followed a gorgeous stately train,
Who scarcely might their coursers rein,
Esquires and Yeomen, two and two,
Accoutred at all points, most true;
Knights of the Body, brave and gay,
Who ushered Henry on his way,
While ‘compassing, on all sides, came
Chiefs and Nobles, high in fame.

XII.

Thronged lofty spears and shields around,
Where the King’s charger trod the ground,
And, deep behind the barrier-arch,
Plume behind plume, in solemn march,
And eyes that seemed to frown with fate,
Upon their monarch’s progress wait.
“Then gentle Henry might you know,
Though harnessed close from head to toe
For, though arrayed for warrior-deed,
He sat not cheerly on his steed;
Though England’s lion on his brow
Claimed homage of a Nation’s bow.

XIII.

Soon as St. Alban’s sons he spied
He drew his rein, and “ Halt!” was cried;
And when the reverend father kneeled,
He pressed his iron beaver down,
And would not let his visor frown,
But all his countenance revealed,
And stretched his gracious hand to raise
The aged man with gentle praise.
And when the blessed anthems pealed,
He would himself have stept to ground,
And with the Abbot, side by side,
Have yielded up all kingly pride,
To pace the Martyr’s tomb around.
But fiery Tudor near him rode.
And instant close beside him strode,
And whisper’d somewhat to his ear;
Which Henry, faltering, seem’d to hear,
And slow and silently obey.
Yet, though his stately seat he kept,
He bade the father lead the way;
And patient, as they stept, he stept,
Listening to their slow chaunted lay,
With due respect and bended head,
While toward the Abbey-gate they led.

XIV.

On as that martial pageant drew,
The Knight on watch would point to view,
Each banner and each chief he knew.
“There rides the high Northumberland,
Leading his hardy northern band,
The son of Hotspur, whose bold hand
So oft the prize of victory won.
There pass the Cliffords, sire and son;
And more of truly noble fire
Ne’er glowed than in the hoary sire!.
There Stafford goes; there Buckingham;
And fiery Tudor, still the same.
Sir John de Grooby you may see,
With new-worn honours vain and brave;
Just knighted by King Henry he,
O may he ‘scape an early grave!
Whate’er his fate, he cares not now;
The plume exults upon his brow.”

XV.

Now Clement flies right speedily,
And, mounting on a turret-way,
Through narrow loop begins to spy,
The varying struggle of that day;
For, figured underneath his eye,
While fearless he of spear and dart,
Lay street and road, as on a chart.
Close looked this Saxon turret down
Upon the four ways of the town,
And on Queen Ellen’s shrine and green,
(The garden-plat alone “between)
And, broad and straight, the way then spread
To old St. Peter’s towered head;
Closing the far perspective there,
His battlements were drawn on air.

XVI.

Below, the roads, and streets, and green,
So crowded were with shield and pike,
That scarcely was there room between
For lance to poise, or sword to strike;
But the chief turmoil of the scene
Was on St. Peter’s spacious way,
Where, in the centre of the green,
King Henry and his knights were seen,
Around his banner floating gay.
‘Twas planted for the battle-hour,
With the full pomp of warlike power;
‘Mid clarion’s and trumpet’s sound,
And shouts, that rent the air far round,
Making old Alban’s shrines to shake,
And tremble deep her crystal lake.
On Peter’s street that standard stood,
Summoning hill and vale and wood.
While the King’s orders went, to keep
The wards and barriers of the place
With strong watch; for, near Alban’s steep,
York now advanced, in quickened pace. —

XVII.

Advanced so fast, that, when the King
One moment at the shrine would spend,
His chiefs arranged themselves in ring
Around, and urged him to suspend
His pious purpose, till that day
Were ended, and that battle-fray.
Meek Henry yielded with a sigh,
And something like a frown
Came darkening o’er his tearful eye;
But soon, with patient look on high,
It died in smile of piety,
Such as blest saint might own.
Then, turned he to the humble door
Of Edmund Westby, th’ Hundredor;
There his headquarters were prepared
By those, who with him more than shared
His power; there he resolved to wait
Whate’er might be the battle’s fate,
Or welcome peace, or lengthened hate.

XVIII.

In terror from the turret-arch,
Was now seen Richard’s rapid march,
And signal given and ‘larum call,
Rang round about the Abbey wall.
Now all are up on gallery-tower,
To scan the enemy’s dread power
O’er the wide fields advancing round
From meadow-slopes, where woods had been,
But now no sign of oak is seen;
Archers and pikemen step the ground;
And down the glade, that spreads below,
Arrayed in many a gleaming row,
They stand beneath St. Alban’s brow.
But chiefly on the eastern side
Key’s Field displayed their bannered pride.
There most St. Alban’s feared their blow;
St. Alban’s — ill prepared for war,
Though thronged with arms and warriors bold
For no broad bulwark seen afar,
Nor stretching rampart, proudly told
Defiance and a mighty hold;
But simple wall and barrier-gate
Warded for old St. Alban’s fate.

XIX.

Wide o’er the northern fields afar
Still marched Duke Richard’s lines of war.
Whose white-rose banners, gathering nigh,
Gave silent signal to the eye
Of more than he had dared to claim —
Richard of York’s yet secret aim.
White blossoms in each cap were seen,
For unblown rose, the sweet may-thorn,
From banks of freshly-blushing green
By gauntlet-fingers rudely torn,
And placed on high, a smiling crest,
O’er brows by iron vizor pressed;
Device, at once, for the PALE ROSE,
And FOR the name that gave HIM sway,
Who gaily on his warrior-brows
Bore the bright bloom PLANT-A-GENET.

XX.

The warders scanned the outspread force
From tower and turret still in vain;
Richard of York, in double course,
To shrouding woods extends his train:
And who may guess what numbers there
In silence wait and watchful care,
Ready the battle to sustain?
To inexperienced eyes, and fear,
His hundreds, thousands thus appear,
Now lost and seen in grove and field;
While Henry’s thousands cooped in street,
Seem but to threaten self-defeat,
Incapable their strength to wield.