| |
| IN Bruges town is many a street | |
| Whence busy life hath fled; | |
| Where, without hurry, noiseless feet | |
| The grass-grown pavement tread. | |
| There heard we, halting in the shade | 5 |
| Flung from a convent-tower, | |
| A harp that tuneful prelude made | |
| To a voice of thrilling power. | |
| |
| The measure, simple truth to tell, | |
| Was fit for some gay throng; | 10 |
| Though from the same grim turret fell | |
| The shadow and the song. | |
| When silent were both voice and chords, | |
| The strain seemed doubly dear, | |
| Yet sad as sweet,—for English words | 15 |
| Had fallen upon the ear. | |
| |
| It was a breezy hour of eve; | |
| And pinnacle and spire | |
| Quivered and seemed almost to heave, | |
| Clothed with innocuous fire; | 20 |
| But, where we stood, the setting sun | |
| Showed little of his state; | |
| And, if the glory reached the nun, | |
| ’T was through an iron grate. | |
| |
| Not always is the heart unwise, | 25 |
| Nor pity idly born, | |
| If even a passing stranger sighs | |
| For them who do not mourn. | |
| Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, | |
| Captive, whoe’er thou be! | 30 |
| O, what is beauty, what is love, | |
| And opening life to thee? | |
| |
| Such feeling pressed upon my soul, | |
| A feeling sanctified | |
| By one soft trickling tear that stole | 35 |
| From the maiden at my side; | |
| Less tribute could she pay than this, | |
| Borne gayly o’er the sea, | |
| Fresh from the beauty and the bliss | |
| Of English liberty? | 40 |
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