Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) (272 page)

XLIII.

With haughty eye and cheek, that burned,
Straight to the Abbot’s hall he turned,
Bearing the falchion of his foe,
While vengeance dark sat on his brow.
A parting gesture slight he gave;
Stately the Abbot stood and grave,
Nor sought, by look, or argument,
To win his passions to relent.
And, as he drew near to the screen,
The Abbot’s page, “with humble mien,
Brought message brief from Warwick’s lord, —
Required Duke Richard’s present word
On subject high, that might not wait; —
The board were sitting in debate.

XLIV.

Straight, Richard to the council went;
And thus, in mutual discontent,
Parted the victor and the sire —
The victor, with disdainful ire,
The Abbot, with a meek desire
To save Fitzharding’s threatened life,
And keep from sacrilegious strife,
From envious and irreverend search,
His Abbey-precincts and his Church.
He sought the Knight; but still his guard,
The Saxon door, held sturdy ward.
No voice beyond in gallery
Gave to his friendly call reply;
And, with a weary sigh, he sought
His cell, though peopled ‘twas with thought,
With spectre-cares of many a day,
Still thronging where he silent lay:
There he resolved awhile to lie,
Hoping Fitzharding might be nigh.

XLV.

Wearied and worn with grief and fears,
Vainly he mourned, that at his years
He took the burthen up again
Of Abbey-honours he thought vain,
And had resigned, foreseeing crime
And tumult in this fearful time;
But, weary of a long repose,
He, whom, his grateful monks re-chose,
Resumed his honours at life’s close,
To be the lord and slave of men.
And now was come that evil day,
When the land bore divided sway.
Behold him now, in mitred chair
Of rule, of honour and of care;
Behold his trembling age reclined
On thorny pillows, ‘broidered o’er
With pageantries, that ceased to blind
The vanities of years before;
And hear him mourn his comfort lost,
Wisdom, o’ercome by love of power,
The peace of age by worldly passion tossed.

XLVI.

Yet kindly conscious was the thought
That his last toil had not been vain,
To save from rage, or thirst of gain,
His Abbey, nigh to ruin brought.
His care had rescued her from woe,
And bade her former grandeur glow;
Repaired her walls and cloisters grey,
And o’er them thrown the tinted ray
(Through windows traced with legend story
)
Of tinted lights of Melancholy;
Such as she loves to muse beneath,
Whether with rose, or cypress wreath,
(Rapture and sadness meek, in emblem there)
When the last, western gleam
Shoots a long, trembling beam
O’er the bold Norman arch and walks afar;
And Evening’s choral hymn, the while,
Swells high, and falls along the aisle.

CANTO VIII
.

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 lowlying 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 wellknown 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 Offas 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.