Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering. From Vienna, by the Danube, Here she came, a bride, in spring. Now the autumn crisps the forest; Hunters gather, bugles ring. Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing, Hark! the game's on foot; they scatter !— Pale and breathless, came the hunters- 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, Sate the Duchess Marguerite. Hark! below the gates unbarring ! Tramp of men and quick commands ! ''Tis my lord come back from hunting.'And the Duchess claps her hands. Slow and tired, came the hunters; To the hall! What sport, what sport?' Slow they enter'd with their master; Dead her princely youthful husband In Vienna, by the Danube, Kings hold revel, gallants meet. In Vienna, by the Danube, Feast and dance her youth beguiled. Till that hour she never sorrow'd; 'Mid the Savoy mountain-valleys 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- In the Savoy mountain-meadows, On her palfrey white the Duchess German masons, smiths from Spain. Clad in black, on her white palfrey, There they found her in the mountains, There she sate, and watch'd the builders, In the nave a tomb of stone. On the tomb two forms they sculptured, Round the tomb the carved stone fret-work Then the Duchess closed her labours; II. The Church. UPON the glistening leaden roof Of the new pile, the sunlight shines; 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 The churchyard wall that clips the square But all things now are order'd fair On Sundays, at the matin-chime, Burghers and dames, at summer's prime, But else it is a lonely time On Sundays, too, a priest doth come And then you hear the organ's hum, 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, C |