Matthew Arnold (1822–88). The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840–1867. 1909.
Poems; A New Edition. 1853The Church of Brou. I. The Castle
D
Echoing round this castle old,
’Mid the distant mountain chalets
Hark! what bell for church is toll’d?
Savoy’s Duke had left his bride.
From the Castle, past the drawbridge,
Flow’d the hunters’ merry tide.
Gay, her smiling lord to greet,
From her mullion’d chamber casement
Smiles the Duchess Marguerite.
Here she came, a bride, in spring.
Now the autumn crisps the forest;
Hunters gather, bugles ring.
Horses fret, and boar-spears glance:
Off!—They sweep the marshy forests,
Westward, on the side of France.
Down the forest ridings lone,
Furious, single horsemen gallop.
Hark! a shout—a crash—a groan!
On the turf dead lies the boar.
God! the Duke lies stretch’d beside him—
Senseless, Weltering in his gore.
Down the leaf-strewn forest road,
To the castle, past the drawbridge,
Came the hunters with their load.
Ladies waiting round her seat,
Cloth’d in smiles, beneath the dais,
Sate the Duchess Marguerite.
Tramp of men and quick commands!
‘—’Tis my lord come back from hunting.’—
And the Duchess claps her hands.
Stopp’d in darkness in the court.
‘—Ho, this way, ye laggard hunters!,
To the hall! What sport, what sport?’—
In the hall they laid him down.
On his coat were leaves and blood-stains:
On his brow an angry frown.
Lay before his wife;
Bloody ’neath the flaring scones:
And the sight froze all her life.
Kings hold revel, gallants meet.
Gay of old amid the gayest
Was the Duchess Marguerite.
Feast and dance her youth beguil’d.
Till that hour she never sorrow’d;
But from then she never smil’d.
Far from town or haunt of man,
Stands a lonely Church, unfinish’d,
Which the Duchess Maud began:
In grey age, with palsied hands.
But she died while it was building,
And the Church unfinish’d stands;
When she sunk into her grave.
Mountain greensward paves the chancel;
Harebells flower in the nave.
Said the Duchess Marguerite then.
‘Guide me, vassals, to the mountains!
We will build the Church again.’—
Austrian knights from Syria came.
‘Austrian wanderers bring, O warders,
Homage to your Austrian dame.’—
‘Gone, O knights, is she you knew.
Dead our Duke, and gone his Duchess.
Seek her at the Church of Brou.’—
Climb the winding mountain way.
Reach the valley, where the Fabric
Rises higher day by day.
On the work the bright sun shines:
In the Savoy mountain meadows,
By the stream, below the pines.
Sate and watch’d her working train;
Flemish carvers, Lombard gilders,
German masons, smiths from Spain.
Her old architect beside—
There they found her in the mountains,
Morn and noon and eventide.
Till the Church was roof’d and done.
Last of all, the builders rear’d her
In the nave a tomb of stone.
Lifelike in the marble pale.
One, the Duke in helm and armour;
One, the Duchess in her veil.
Was at Easter tide put on.
Then the Duchess clos’d her labours;
And she died at the St. John.