| |
| IN the ancient town of Bruges, | |
| In the quaint old Flemish city, | |
| As the evening shades descended, | |
| Low and loud and sweetly blended, | |
| Low at times and loud at times, | 5 |
| And changing like a poet’s rhymes, | |
| Rang the beautiful wild chimes | |
| From the Belfry in the market | |
| Of the ancient town of Bruges. | |
| |
| Then, with deep sonorous clangor | 10 |
| Calmly answering their sweet anger, | |
| When the wrangling bells had ended, | |
| Slowly struck the clock eleven, | |
| And, from out the silent heaven, | |
| Silence on the town descended. | 15 |
| Silence, silence everywhere, | |
| On the earth and in the air, | |
| Save that footsteps here and there | |
| Of some burgher home returning, | |
| By the street lamps faintly burning, | 20 |
| For a moment woke the echoes | |
| Of the ancient town of Bruges. | |
| |
| But amid my broken slumbers | |
| Still I heard those magic numbers, | |
| As they loud proclaimed the flight | 25 |
| And stolen marches of the night; | |
| Till their chimes in sweet collision | |
| Mingled with each wandering vision, | |
| Mingled with the fortune-telling | |
| Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, | 30 |
| Which amid the waste expanses | |
| Of the silent land of trances | |
| Have their solitary dwelling; | |
| All else seemed asleep in Bruges, | |
| In the quaint old Flemish city. | 35 |
| |
| And I thought how like these chimes | |
| Are the poet’s airy rhymes, | |
| All his rhymes and roundelays, | |
| His conceits, and songs, and ditties, | |
| From the belfry of his brain, | 40 |
| Scattered downward, though in vain, | |
| On the roofs and stones of cities! | |
| For by night the drowsy ear | |
| Under its curtains cannot hear, | |
| And by day men go their ways, | 45 |
| Hearing the music as they pass, | |
| But deeming it no more, alas! | |
| Than the hollow sound of brass. | |
| |
| Yet perchance a sleepless wight, | |
| Lodging at some humble inn | 50 |
| In the narrow lanes of life, | |
| When the dusk and hush of night | |
| Shut out the incessant din | |
| Of daylight and its toil and strife, | |
| May listen with a calm delight | 55 |
| To the poet’s melodies, | |
| Till he hears, or dreams he hears, | |
| Intermingled with the song, | |
| Thoughts that he has cherished long; | |
| Hears amid the chime and singing | 60 |
| The bells of his own village ringing, | |
| And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes | |
| Wet with most delicious tears. | |
| |
| Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay | |
| In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé, | 65 |
| Listening with a wild delight | |
| To the chimes that, through the night, | |
| Rang their changes from the Belfry | |
| Of that quaint old Flemish city. | |
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