On the tomb two Forms they sculptur'd,
Lifelike in the marble pale,
One, the Duke in helm and armor;
One, the Duchess in her veil.
Round the tomb the carv'd stone fretwork
Was at Easter-tide put on.
Then the Duchess clos'd her labors;
And she died at the St. John.
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 Chambéry,
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.
But 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.
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,
Coming 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 colors 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 clerestory window shines,
And the wind washes in the mountain pines.
Then gazing up through the dim pillars high,
The foliag'd marble forest where ye lie,
ye will say "it is eternity.
This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these
The columns of the Heavenly Palaces."
And in the sweeping of the wind your ear
The passage of the Angels' wings will hear,
And on the lichen-crusted leads above
The rustle of the eternal rain of Love.
Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse (Near Grenoble)
THROUGH Alpine meadows soft-suffused
With rain, where thick the crocus blows,
Past the dark forges long disused,
The mule-track from Saint Laurent goes.
The bridge is cross'd, and slow we ride,
Through forest, up the mountain-side.
The autumnal evening darkens round,
The wind is up, and drives the rain;
While, hark! far down, with strangled sound
Doth the Dead Guier's stream complain,
Where that wet smoke, among the woods,
Over his boiling cauldron broods.
Swift rush the spectral vapors white
Past limestone scars with ragged pines,
Showing then blotting from our sight!
Halt through the cloud-drift something shines!
High in the valley, wet and drear,
The huts of Courrerie appear.
Strike leftward! cries our guide, and higher
Mounts up the stony forest-way.
At last the encircling trees retire;
Look! through the showery twilight gray
What pointed roofs are these advance?
A palace of the Kings of France ?
Approach, for what we seek is here!
Alight, and sparely sup, and wait
For rest in this outbuilding near;
Then cross the sward and reach that gate.
Knock; pass the wicket! Thou art come
To the Carthusians' world-famed home.
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