“In my castle all is sorrow,” Said the Duchess Marguerite then: “Guide me, some one, to the mountain; We will build the church again.” Sandalled palmers, faring homeward, Austrian knights from Syria came. “Austrian wanderers bring, O warders! Homage to your Austrian dame.” From the gate the warders answered,-- “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 watched 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 watched the builders, Till the church was roofed and done; Last of all, the builders reared her In the nave a tomb of stone. On the tomb two forms they sculptured, Lifelike in the marble pale,-- One, the duke in helm and armor; One, the duchess in her veil. Round the tomb the carved stone fret-work Was at Easter-tide put on. Then the duchess closed her labors; And she died at the St. John. II. The Church. Upon the glistening leaden roof Of the new pile, the sunlight shines; The stream goes leaping by. The hills are clothed 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 open hill-sward fresh and green Where last year they lay. But all things now are ordered 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 walled town beyond the pass, Down the mountain-way; And then you hear the organ’s hum, You hear the white-robed priest say mass, And the people pray. But else the woods and fields are dumb Round the Church of Brou.