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 chiselled broideries rare-- Then they drop away. 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, 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, forever 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 colors 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 checker-work of glowing sapphire-tints, And amethyst, and ruby,--then unclose Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, And from your broidered pillows lift your heads, And rise upon your cold white marble beds; And looking down on the warm rosy tints Which checker, 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 through the mountain-pines,-- Then, gazing up ’mid 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. _A MODERN SAPPHO._ They are gone--all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver? 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!