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,

And praise the chisell'd broideries rareThen they drop away.

The princely pair are left alone

In the Church of Brou.

THE CHURCH OF BROU.

III.

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 fringed 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,
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 carved western front a flood of light

Streams from the setting sun, and colours bright
Prophets, transfigured 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,
And raise you on your cold white marble beds;
And looking down on the warm rosy tints
Which chequer, at your feet, the illumined 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 'mid the mountain pines;
Then, gazing up through the dim pillars high,
The foliaged 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.

N summer, on the headlands,

IN

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 kind sea-wave.