In the hall, with sconces blazing,
Ladies waiting round her seat,
Cloth'd in smiles, beneath the dais
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;
Stopp'd in darkness in the court.
'-Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!
To the hall! What sport, what sport?'
Slow they enter'd with their Master;
In the hall they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains;
On his brow an angry frown.
Dead her princely youthful husband
Lay before his youthful wife;
Bloody 'neath the flaring sconces :
And the sight froze all her life.
In Vienna by the Danube
Kings hold revel, gallants meet.
Gay of old amid the gayest
Was the Duchess Marguerite.
In Vienna by the Danube
Feast and dance her youth beguil'd
Till that hour she never sorrow'd;
But from then she never smil'd.
'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 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 clos'd her labours;
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 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.
So rest, for ever 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 draw bridge 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, for ever sleep, O Marble Pair!
Or, 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 wails among the mountain pines.
Then, gazing up through the dim pillars high,
The foliag'd 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' wing will hear,
And on the lichen-crusted leads above
The rustle of the eternal rain of Love.
ELIZABETH AT TILBURY.-F. T. Palgrave.
Autumn, 1588.
LET them come, come never so proudly,
O'er the green waves in tall array;
Silver clarions menacing loudly,
'All the Spains' on their pennons gay;
High on deck of their gilded galleys
Our light sailers they scorn below :-
We will scatter them, plague, and shatter them,
Till their flag hauls down to the toe!
For our oath we swear
By the name we bear,
By England's Queen, and England free and fair,—
Her's ever, and her's still, come life, come death:
God save Elizabeth!
Sidonía, Recalde, and Leyva
Watch from their bulwarks in swarthy scorn;
|