'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 The churchyard wall that clips the square But all things now are ordered fair 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 On Sundays, too, a priest doth come And then you hear the organ's hum, 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, с And praise the chiselled broideries rare 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, So sleep, forever sleep, O marble pair! And amethyst, and ruby, then unclose This is the glimmering verge of heaven, and these And in the sweeping of the wind your ear A MODERN SAPPHO. THEY are gone quiver? all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou 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 I shall suffer ah! most loves but flow once, and return. - but they will outlive their affection; I shall weep-but their love will be cooling; and he, As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee! For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking The strong band which passion around him hath furled, Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world. Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing, Perceive but a voice as I come to his side; -But deeper their voice grows, and nobler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died. So, to wait! But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving? 'Tis he! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees! Let my turn, if it will come, be swift in arriving! Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these. Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure? World, have thy children yet bowed at his knee? Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure? - Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me. REQUIESCAT. STREW on her roses, roses, In quiet she reposes; Ah! would that I did too! Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee. And now they let her be. |