Matthew Arnold — 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.