All pains the immortal spirit must endure, THE CHURCH OF BROU. I. THE CASTLE. Down the Savoy valleys sounding, Hark! what bell for church is toll'd? In the bright October morning Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering; From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring. Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter! Furious, single horsemen gallop a groan! Pale and breathless, came the hunters; God! the Duke lies stretch'd beside him, In the dull October evening, Down the leaf strewn forest-road, To the castle, past the drawbridge, Came the hunters with their load. In the hall, with sconces blazing, Hark! below the gates unbarring! Slow and tired, came the hunters Slow they enter'd with their master; Dead her princely youthful husband In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled. Till that hour she never sorrow'd; But from then she never smiled. 'Mid the Savoy mountain valleys Far from town or haunt of man, Stands a lonely church, unfinish'd, Which the Duchess Maud began; Old, that Duchess stern began it, In grey age, with palsied hands; But she died while it was building, And the Church unfinish'd stands Stands as erst the builders left it, "In my castle all is sorrow," Said the Duchess Marguerite then; "Guide me, some one, to the mountain! We will build the Church again." Sandall'd palmers, faring homeward, 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 Stones are sawing, hammers ringing; 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, There they found her in the mountain, There she sate, and watch'd the builders, On the tomb two forms they sculptured, Lifelike in the marble pale One, the Duke in helm and armour; Round the tomb the carved 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 The hills are clothed 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 But all things now are order'd fair On Sundays, at the matin-chime, The Alpine peasants, two and three, Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, Dight with mantles gay. |