Poetical Works of Matthew Arnold Part 3

Stones are sawing, hammers ringing; On the work the bright sun s.h.i.+nes, In the Savoy mountain-meadows, By the stream, below the pines.

On her palfrey white the d.u.c.h.ess Sate and watch'd 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 watch'd the builders, Till the Church was roof'd and done.

Last of all, the builders rear'd 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 armour; One, the d.u.c.h.ess in her veil.

Round the tomb the carved stone fretwork Was at Easter-tide put on.

Then the d.u.c.h.ess closed her labours; And she died at the St. John.

II

The Church

Upon the glistening leaden roof Of the new Pile, the sunlight s.h.i.+nes; 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 order'd 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 wall'd town beyond the pa.s.s, Down the mountain-way; And then you hear the organ's hum, You hear the white-robed priest say ma.s.s, And the people pray.

But else the woods and fields are dumb Round the Church of Brou.

And after church, when ma.s.s is done, The people to the nave repair Round the tomb to stray; And marvel at the Forms of stone, And praise the chisell'd broideries rare-- Then they drop away.

The princely Pair are left alone In the Church of Brou.

III

The Tomb

So rest, for ever rest, O princely Pair!

In your high church, 'mid the still mountain-air, Where horn, and hound, and va.s.sals, 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! shall never more arise From the fringed mattress where thy d.u.c.h.ess 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 b.l.o.o.d.y freight, Coming benighted to the castle-gate.

So sleep, for ever 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 colours 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 chequer-work of glowing sapphire-tints, And amethyst, and ruby--then unclose Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, And from your broider'd pillows lift your heads, And rise upon your cold white marble beds; And, looking down on the warm rosy tints, Which chequer, 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 s.h.i.+nes, 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 pa.s.sage 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 s.h.i.+nes the house, and beneath flows the river-- Here lean, my head, on this cold bal.u.s.trade!

Ere he come--ere the boat by the s.h.i.+ning-branch'd border Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream, Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order, Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam.

Last night we stood earnestly talking together; She enter'd--that moment his eyes turn'd from me!

Fasten'd on her dark hair, and her wreath of white heather-- As yesterday was, so to-morrow will be.

Their love, let me know, must grow strong and yet stronger, Their pa.s.sion burn more, ere it ceases to burn.

They must love--while they must! but the hearts that love longer Are rare--ah! most loves but flow once, and return.

I shall suffer--but they will outlive their affection; I shall weep--but their love will be cooling; and he, As he drifts to fatigue, discontent, and dejection, Will be brought, thou poor heart, how much nearer to thee!

For cold is his eye to mere beauty, who, breaking The strong band which pa.s.sion around him hath furl'd, Disenchanted by habit, and newly awaking, Looks languidly round on a gloom-buried world.

Through that gloom he will see but a shadow appearing, Perceive but a voice as I come to his side-- But deeper their voice grows, and n.o.bler their bearing, Whose youth in the fires of anguish hath died.

So, to wait!----But what notes down the wind, hark! are driving?

'Tis he! 'tis their flag, shooting round by the trees!

--Let my turn, if it _will_ come, be swift in arriving!

Ah! hope cannot long lighten torments like these.

Hast thou yet dealt him, O life, thy full measure?

World, have thy children yet bow'd at his knee?

Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crown'd him, O pleasure?

--Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me!

REQUIESCAT

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes; Ah, would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required; She bathed it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound.

But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath.

To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of death.