Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE HELMETS, A FRAGMENT, by THOMAS PENROSE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE HELMETS, A FRAGMENT, by                    
First Line: Twas midnight - every mortal eye was closed
Last Line: The agonising priest.
Subject(s): Arms & Armor; Fights; Soldiers


The scene of the following event is laid in the neighbourhood of Donnington
Castle, in a house built after the Gothic taste upon a spot famous for a bloody
encounter between the armies of Charles and the Parliament.
The prognostication alludes to civil dissension, which some have foretold
would arise in England, in consequence of the disputes with America.

'TWAS midnight—every mortal eye was closed
Through the whole mansion, save an antique crone's,
That o'er the dying embers faintly watched
The broken sleep (fell harbinger of Death)
Of a sick boteler. Above indeed
In a drear gallery (lighted by one lamp
Whose wick the poor departing seneschal
Did closely imitate) paced slow and sadThe village curate, waiting late to
shrive
The penitent when 'wake. Scarce showed the ray
To fancy's eye the portrayed characters
That graced the wall. On this and t' other side
Suspended, nodded o'er the sleepy stair,
In many a trophy formed, the knightly group
Of helms and targets, gauntlets, maces strong,
And horses' furniture, brave monuments
Of ancient chivalry. Through the stained pane
Low gleamed the moon—not bright, but of such power
As marked the clouds, black, threat'ning overhead,
Full mischief-fraught; from these in many a peal
Growled the near thunder, flashed the frequent blaze
Of lightning blue. While round the fretted dome
The wind sung surly, with unusual clank
The armour shook tremendous. On a couch
Placed in the oriel sunk the churchman down:
For who, alone at that dread hour of night,
Could bear portentous prodigy?—
'I hear it,' cries the proudly gilded Casque
(Filled by the soul of one, who erst took joy
In slaught'rous deeds), 'I hear amidst the gale
The hostile spirit shouting—once, once more
In the thick harvest of the spears we'll shine—
There will be work anon.'
'I'm wakened too,'
Replied the sable Helmet (tenanted
By a like inmate); 'hark! I hear the voice
Of the impatient ghosts, who straggling range
Yon summit (crowned with ruined battlements,
The fruits of civil discord); to the din
The spirits, wand'ring round this Gothic pile,
All join their yell—the song is war and death—
There will be work anon.'
'Call armourers, ho!
Furbish my vizor—close my rivets up—
I brook no dallying.'
'Soft, my hasty friend,'
Said the black Beaver, 'neither of us twain
Shall share the bloody toil. War-worn am I;
Bored by a happier mace, I let in fate
To my once master: since unsought, unused,
Pensile I'm fixed. Yet too your gaudy pride
Has naught to boast: the fashion of the fight
Has thrown your gilt and shady plumes aside
For modern foppery; still do not frown,
Nor lour indignantly your steely brows;
We've comfort left enough. The bookman's lore
Shall trace our sometime merit; in the eye
Of antiquary taste we long shall shine:
And as the scholar marks our rugged front,
He'll say, this Cressy saw, this Agincourt:
Thus dwelling on the prowess of his fathers,
He'll venerate their shell. Yet more than this,
From our inactive station we shall hear
The groans of butchered brothers, shrieking plaints
Of ravished maids, and matrons' frantic howls;
Already hov'ring o'er the threatened lands,
The famished raven snuffs the promised feast,
And hoarslier croaks for blood—'twill flow.'
'Forbid it, heaven!
O shield my suffering country!—shield it!', prayed
The agonising priest.





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