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 torchlight 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 lire,
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 gravestones 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-lrall 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
CANTO II.
I
AMIDST these old abodes of peace
Did War his crimson banner rear.
And bid the heavenly anthem cease.
While his stern trumpets rent the air?
Here, in each cloister, hall and walk,
Where sandalled feet unheard went by,
And voices low, in reverend talk,
Feared to disturb it’s sanctity,
Did here the Warrior’s iron tread
Shake the cold slumber of the dead,
Call murmurs from the vaults below
And the long whispered sigh of woe;
Stalk o’er the helpless and the good,
And print the hermit’s vest with blood?
Yes; blood the hallowed pavement stained;
And blood the shrine of peace prophaned!
The rin
g of mail — the clash of steel
Through choir and cloister sent their peal
To chambers dim, where Silence slept,
And pious men their sabbath kept,
Who, long secure from sense of ill,
And well subdued in mind and will,
Pondered Futurity’s high theme
And this world’s strange and fleeting dream.
II.
O day of guilt and bleeding woe!
Year after year shall mourn in vain
The countless ills, that from ye flow;
And hardly hope for peace again —
The day, when York and Lancaster
First loosed the tide of civil war;
When hostile brothers of the land
Met face to face, and hand to hand,
And sunk each other’s lance beneath,
And breathed each other’s dying breath!
III.
The eve before that battle day,
The camp of either army lay
Beyond where now the straining sight
Can reach from Alban’s utmost height.
‘Twas leaning on this very tower,
That Alban’s Monks watched hour by hour.
They, who lie dark in death below
Yon fallen walls, in silent row
Gazed, as you gaze, from this high brow.
The cowl and helmet, side by side,
Watched from this height the bannered pride,
And marked the gathering storm of war
Hang dark o’er all those hills afar;
And, in dread stillness of the soul,
Heard the low, threatening thunder roll,
That soon would, in it’s cloudy course,
Burst round their walls with lightning-force.
IV.
Camped o’er those green and northern lands,
There lay Duke Richard’s way-worn bands;
The pale rose on their ensigns stood.
Southward, where now the clear sun shines.
Watched Royal Henry’s warrior-lines,
Surmounted with the rose of blood.
His vanguard lay beneath these halls,
And round St. Stephen’s neighbouring walls.
To Cashio’s vale his centre spread,
Where the King pressed a thorny bed.
His legions stretched toward Stanmore’s brow
And Harrow’s lofty sanctuary,
Whose spiry top you just may know,
Crowned with many a stately tree,
Where now the gleam falls fleetingly.
Delphi Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe (Illustrated) Page 247
