style="font-size:15px;"> Crossing the stream, the kine are seenRound the wall to stray—
The churchyard wall that clips the square
Of open hill-sward fresh and green
Where last year they lay.
But all things now are ordered 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 walled town beyond the pass,
Down the mountain-way;
And then you hear the organ’s hum,
You hear the white-robed 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 chiselled 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 fringed 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!
Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair
On the carved western front a flood of light
Streams from the setting sun, and colors bright
Prophets, transfigured saints, and martyrs brave,
In the vast western window of the nave;
And on the pavement round the tomb there glints
A checker-work of glowing sapphire-tints,
And amethyst, and ruby—then unclose
Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,
And from your broidered pillows lift your heads,
And rise upon your cold white marble beds;
And looking down on the warm rosy tints
Which checker, at your feet, the illumined 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 through the mountain-pines— Then, gazing up ’mid the dim pillars high, The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, Hush, 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.
A MODERN SAPPHO.
They are gone—all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?
Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.
Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river:
Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!
Ere he come—ere the boat by the shining-branched border
Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream—
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,
Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broidered flags gleam.
Last night we stood earnestly talking together:
She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!
Fastened on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather.
As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.
Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger,
Their passion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.
They must love—while they must! but the hearts that love longer
Are rare—ah! most loves but flow once, and return.
I shall suffer—but they will outlive their affection;
I shall weep—but their love will be cooling;
