Poems - Arnold Matthew

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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.

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      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!

      Ere he come—ere the boat by the shining-branched 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 broidered flags gleam.

      Last night we stood earnestly talking together:

       She entered—that moment his eyes turned from me!

       Fastened 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 passion 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 passion around him hath furled,

       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 nobler 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 bowed at his knee?

       Hast thou with myrtle-leaf crowned him, O pleasure?

       —Crown, crown him quickly, and leave him for me.

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      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 cabined, ample spirit,

       It fluttered and failed for breath;

       To-night it doth inherit

       The vasty hall of death.

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      ’Tis death! and peace indeed is here,

       And ease from shame, and rest from fear.

       There’s nothing can dismarble now

       The smoothness of that limpid brow.

       But is a calm like this, in truth,

       The crowning end of life and youth?

       And when this boon rewards the dead,

       Are all debts paid, has all been said?

       And is the heart of youth so light,

      

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