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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 unharring !
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 brow an angry frown.
Lay before his youthful wife;
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 beguild 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, 0 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.
Rises higher day by day.
On the work the bright sun shines :
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.
Her old architect beside-
Morn and noon and eventide.
Till the Church was roofd 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 Duchess in her veil.
Was at Easter-tide put on.
And she died at the St. John.
EF. The Church.
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
Round the wall to stray ;
Where last year they lay. But all things now are order'd fair Round the church of Brou.
On Sundays, at the matin chime,
Climb up here to pray.
Dight with mantles gay. But else it is a lonely time Round the Church of Brou.
On Sundays too a priest doth come
Down the mountain way.
And then you hear the organ's hum
And the people pray.
Round the Tomb to stray.
Then they drop away:
XXX. The Tomb. 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,
, where ye lie,
ELIZABETH AT TILBURY.-F. T. Palgrave.
LET them come, come never so proudly,
O'er the green waves in tall array ;
*All the Spains' on their pennons gay ;
Our light sailers they scorn below :---
For our oath we swear
By the name we bear,
God save Elizabeth !
Sidonía, Recalde, and Leyva
Watch from their bulwarks in swarthy scorn;