The Church of Brou: The Church

Upon the glistening leaden roof
Of the new Pile, the sunlight shines;
&nbspThe stream goes leaping by.
The hills are clothed with pines sun-proof;
'Mid bright green fields, below the pines,
&nbspStands 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
&nbspRound the wall to stray—
The churchyard wall that clips the square
Of open hill-sward fresh and green
&nbspWhere 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,
&nbspClimb up here to pray;
Burghers and dames, at summer's prime,
Ride out to church from Chambery,
&nbspDight 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,
&nbspDown the mountain-way;
And then you hear the organ's hum,
You hear the white-robed priest say mass,
&nbspAnd 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
&nbspRound the tomb to stray;
And marvel at the Forms of stone,
And praise the chisell'd broideries rare—
&nbspThen they drop away.
The princely Pair are left alone
In the Church of Brou.