Old, that Duchess stern began it,
In gray age, with palsied hands;
But she died as it was building,

And the Church unfinish'd stands;

Stands as erst the builders left it,
When she sunk into her grave;
Mountain greensward paves the chancel,
Harebells flower in the nave.

"In

my Castle all is sorrow,”.

Said the Duchess Marguerite then, "Guide me, vassals, to the mountains!

We will build the church again."

Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward,
Austrian knights from Syria came:
"Austrian wanderers bring, O warders,
Homage to your Austrian dame."

From the gate the warders answer'd,
"Gone, O knights, is she you knew;
Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess,
Seek her at the Church of Brou."

Austrian knights and march-worn palmers Climb the winding mountain way;

Reach the valley, where the fabric

Rises higher day by day.

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;
On the work the bright sun shines;
In the Savoy mountain meadows,

By the stream, below the pines.

On her palfrey white, the Duchess
Sate and watch'd her working train;
Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,

German masons, smiths from Spain.

Clad in black, on her white palfrey,
Her old architect beside-

There they found her in the mountains,
Morn, and noon, and eventide.

There she sate, and watch'd the builders,
Till the Church was roof'd and done;
Last of all, the builders rear'd her
In the nave a tomb of stone.

On the tomb two forms they sculptur'd,
Lifelike in the marble pale;
One, the Duke, in helm and armour,
One, the Duchess, in her veil.

Round the tomb the carv'd stone fret-work

Was at Easter tide put on;

Then the Duchess closed her labours

And she died at the St. John,

II.

THE CHURCH.

Upon the glistening leaden roof
Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines;
The stream goes leaping by.

The hills are cloth'd with pines sun-proof,
'Mid bright green fields, below the pines.
Stands the Church on high.

What Church is this, from men aloof? "Tis the Church of Brou.

At sunrise, from their dewy lair,

Crossing the stream, the kine are seen
Round the wall to stray;

The churchyard wall that clips the square
Of shaven hill-sward trim and green,
Where last year they lay.

But all things now are order'd fair

Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, at the matin chime,

The Alpine peasants, two and three,

Climb up here to pray.

Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Ride out to church from Chambery,

Dight with mantles gay.

But else it is a lonely time

Round the Church of Brou.

On Sundays, too, a priest doth come

From the wall'd town beyond the pass,
Down the mountain way.

And then you hear the organ's hum,

You hear the white-rob'd priest say mass,
And the people pray.

But else the woods and fields are dumb

Round the Church of Brou.

And after church, when mass is done,
The people to the nave repair,
Round the tomb to stray,

And marvel at the Forms of stone,

And praise the chisell'd broideries rare,

Then they drop away.

The Princely pair are left alone

In the Church of Brou.

III.

THE TOMB.

So rest, forever rest, O Princely Pair!

In your high Church, 'mid the still mountain air,
Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come.
Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,
From the rich painted windows of the nave,
On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave:
Where thou, young Prince, shalt never more arise
From the fring'd mattress where thy Duchess lies

On autumn mornings, when the bugle sounds,
And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds,
To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve.
And thou, O Princess, shalt no more receive,
Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,
The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,
Come benighted to the castle gate.

So sleep, forever sleep, O Marble Pair!
And if ye wake, let it be then, when fair
On the carv'd Western Front a flood of light
Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright
Prophets, transfigur'd Saints, and Martyrs brave,
In the vast western window of the nave;

And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints
A chequer-work of glowing sapphire tints,
And amethyst and ruby ;-then unclose

Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,

And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,
And rise upon your cold white marble beds,
And looking down on the warm rosy tints

That chequer, at your feet, the illumin'd flints,
Say "What is this? we are in bliss-forgiven—
Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!"-
Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain.
Doth rustlingly above your heads complain
On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls
Shedding her pensive light at intervals

The moon through the clere-story windows shines,
And the wind washes in the mountain pines.