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.

THE CHURCH OF BROU.

III:

THE томв.

So rest, forever 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 drawbridge 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,
Come benighted to the castle gate.

So sleep, forever sleep, O Marble Pair!
And 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 colors bright
Prophets, transfigur'd Saints, and Martyrs brave,
In the vast western window of the nave;

And on the pavement round the Tomb their 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 washes in 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' wings will hear,

And on the lichen-crusted leads above

The rustle of the eternal rain of Love.

THE NECKAN.

In summer, on the headlands,
The Baltic Sea along,

Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
And sings his plaintive song.

Green rolls beneath the headlands,
Green rolls the Baltic Sea.

And there, below the Neckan's feet,

His wife and children be.

He sings not of the ocean,

Its shells and roses pale.

Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings;

He hath no other tale.

He sits upon the headlands,

And sings a mournful stave Of all he saw and felt on earth,

Far from the green sea wave.

Sings how, a knight, he wander'd

By castle, field, and town.

But earthly knights have harder hearts

Than the Sea Children own.

Sings of his earthly bridal

Priest, knights, and ladies gay. "And who art thou," the priest began, "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"

"I am no knight," he answer'd;

"From the sea waves I come."

The knights drew sword, the ladies scream'd, The surplic'd priest stood dumb.

He sings how from the chapel
He vanish'd with his bride,
And bore her down to the sea halls,
Beneath the salt sea tide.

He sings how she sits weeping
'Mid shells that round her lie.

"False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps; "No Christian mate have I.".

He sings how through the billows

He rose to earth again,

And sought a priest to sign the cross,

That Neckan Heaven might gain.