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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=37662" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Church of Brou</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  The Castle</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Down the Savoy valleys sounding,<br> Echoing round this castle old,<br> ’Mid the distant mountain chalets<br> Hark! what bell for church is toll’d?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In the bright October morning<br> Savoy’s Duke had left his bride.<br> From the castle, past the drawbridge,<br> Flow’d the hunters’ merry tide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Steeds are neighing, gallants glittering;<br> Gay, her smiling lord to greet,<br> From her mullion’d chamber casement<br> Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> From Vienna, by the Danube,<br> Here she came, a bride, in spring.<br> Now the autumn crisps the forest;<br> Hunters gather, bugles ring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Hounds are pulling, prickers swearing,<br> Horses fret, and boar-spears glance:<br> Off!- They sweep the marshy forests.<br> Westward, on the side of France.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Hark! the game’s on foot; they scatter!-<br> Down the forest-ridings lone,<br> Furious, single horsemen gallop-<br> Hark! a shout - a crash - a groan!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Pale and breathless, came the hunters;<br> On the turf dead lies the boar<br> God! the Duke lies stretch’d beside him,<br> Senseless, weltering in his gore.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In the dull October evening,<br> Down the leaf-strewn forest-road,<br> To the castle, past the drawbridge,<br> Came the hunters with their load.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In the hall, with sconces blazing,<br> Ladies waiting round her seat,<br> Clothed in smiles, beneath the dais<br> Sate the Duchess Marguerite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Hark! below the gates unbarring!<br> Tramp of men and quick commands!<br> ‘ - ’Tis my lord come back from hunting-’<br> And the Duchess claps her hands.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Slow and tired, came the hunters -<br> Stopp’d in darkness in the court.<br> ‘- Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!<br> To the hall! What sport? What sport?’</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Slow they enter’d with their Master;<br> In the hall they laid him down.<br> On his coat were leaves and blood-stains,<br> On his brow an angry frown.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Dead her princely youthful husband<br> Lay before his youthful wife,<br> Bloody, ’neath the flaring sconces:<br> And the sight froze all her life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> * * * *</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In Vienna, by the Danube,<br> Kings hold revel, gallants meet.<br> Gay of old amid the gayest<br> Was the Duchess Marguerite.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> In Vienna, by the Danube,<br> Feast and dance her youth beguiled.<br> Till that hour she never sorrow’d;<br> But from then she never smiled.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> ’Mid the Savoy mountain valleys<br> Far from town or haunt of man,<br> Stands a lonely church, unfinish’d,<br> Which the Duchess Maud began;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Old, that Duchess stern began it,<br> In grey age, with palsied hands;<br> But she died while it was building,<br> And the Church unfinish’d stands -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Stands as erst the builders left it,<br> When she sank into her grave;<br> Mountain greensward paves the chancel,<br> Harebells flower in the nave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> ‘- In my castle all is sorrow,’<br> Said the Duchess Marguerite then;<br> ‘Guide me, some one, to the mountain!<br> We will build the Church again.’ -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Sandall’d palmers, faring homeward,<br> Austrian knights from Syria came.<br> ‘- Austrian wanderers bring, O warders!<br> Homage to your Austrian dame.’ -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> From the gate the warders answer’d:<br> ‘- Gone, O knights, is she you knew!<br> Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess;<br> Seek her at the Church of Brou!’ -</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Austrian knights and march-worn palmers<br> Climb the winding mountain-way -<br> Reach the valley, where the Fabric<br> Rises higher day by day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Stones are sawing, hammers ringing;<br> On the work the bright sun shines:<br> In the Savoy mountain-meadows,<br> By the stream, below the pines.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> On her palfry white the Duchess<br> Sate and watch’d her working train -<br> Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,<br> German masons, smiths from Spain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Clad in black, on her white palfrey;<br> Her old architect beside -<br> There they found her in the mountains,<br> Morn and noon and eventide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> There she sate, and watch’d the builders,<br> Till the Church was roof’d and done.<br> Last of all, the builders rear’d her<br> In the nave a tomb of stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> On the tomb two forms they sculptured,<br> Lifelike in the marble pale -<br> One, the Duke in helm and armour;<br> One, the Duchess in her veil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork<br> Was at Easter-tide put on.<br> Then the Duchess closed her labours;<br> And she died at the St. John.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>  II</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  The Church</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Upon the glistening leaden roof<br>Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines;<br> The stream goes leaping by.<br>The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;<br>'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,<br> Stands the Church on high.<br>What Church is this, from men aloof? -<br>'Tis the Church of Brou.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At sunrise, from their dewy lair<br>Crossing the stream, the kine are seen<br> Round the wall to stray -<br>The churchyard wall that clips the square<br>Of open hill-sward fresh and green<br> Where last year they lay.<br>But all things now are order'd fair<br>Round the Church of Brou.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Sundays, at the matin-chime,<br>The Alpine peasants, two and three,<br> Climb up here to pray;<br>Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,<br>Ride out to church from Chambery,<br> Dight with mantles gay.<br>But else it is a lonely time<br>Round the Church of Brou.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On Sundays, too, a priest doth come<br>From the wall'd town beyond the pass,<br> Down the mountain-way;<br>And then you hear the organ's hum,<br>You hear the white-robed priest say mass,<br> And the people pray.<br>But else the woods and fields are dumb<br>Round the Church of Brou.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And after church, when mass is done,<br>The people to the nave repair<br> Round the tomb to stray;<br>And marvel at the Forms of stone,<br>And praise the chisell'd broideries rare,<br> Then they drop away.<br>The princely Pair are left alone<br>In the Church of Brou.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>  III</div><div style="margin:10px 0">  The Tomb</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!<br>In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air,<br>Where horn, and hound, and vassals never come.<br>Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb,<br>From the rich painted windows of the nave,<br>On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave;<br>Where thou, young Prince! shalt never more arise<br>From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies,<br>On autumn-mornings, when the bugle sounds,<br>And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds<br>To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve;<br>And thou, O Princess! shalt no more receive,<br>Thou and thy ladies, in the hall of state,<br>The jaded hunters with their bloody freight,<br>Coming benighted to the castle-gate.<br> So sleep, for ever sleep, O marble Pair!<br>Or, if ye wake, let it be then, when fair<br>On the carved western front a flood of light<br>Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright<br>Prophets, transfigured Saints, and Martyrs brave,<br>In the vast western window of the nave,<br>And on the pavement round the Tomb there glints<br>A chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints,<br>And amethyst, and ruby - then unclose<br>Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose,<br>And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads,<br>And rise upon your cold white marble beds;<br>And, looking down on the warm rosy tints,<br>Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined flints,<br>Say: What is this? we are in bliss - forgiven -<br>Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven!<br>Or let it be on autumn nights, when rain<br>Doth rustlingly above your heads complain<br>On the smooth leaden roof, and on the walls<br>Shedding her pensive light at intervals<br>The moon through the clere-story windows shines,<br>And the wind washes through the mountain-pines.<br>Then, gazing up 'mid the dim pillars high,<br>The foliaged marble forest where ye lie,<br>Hush, ye will say, it is eternity!<br>This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these<br>The columns of the heavenly palaces!<br>And, in the sweeping of the wind, your ear<br>The passage of the Angels' wings will hear,<br>And on the lichen-crusted leads above<br>The rustle of the eternal rain of love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Arnold">Matthew Arnold</a><div class=q>
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