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 orderd 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 summers 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 walld town beyond the pass,     Down the mountain-way;     And then you hear the organs 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.     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 chiselld broideries rare.     Then they drop away.     The princely Pair are left alone     In the Church of Brou.