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 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 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, 'Twas through an iron grate. Not always is the heart unwise, 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 Oh! 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 From the Maiden at my side; Less tribute could she pay than this, Borne gaily o'er the sea, Fresh from the beauty and the bliss Of English liberty? 40 1828.
