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 gray 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.

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 armor;
One, the Duchess in her veil.

Round the tomb the carv'd stone fret-work

Was at Easter tide put on.

Then the Duchess closed her labors;

And she died at the St. John.

THE CHURCH OF BROU.

II.

THE CHURCH.

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.