Carillon

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,And changing like a poet's rhymes,Rang the beautiful wild chimesFrom the Belfry in the marketOf the ancient town of Bruges.

Then, with deep sonorous clangorCalmly 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.Silence, silence everywhere,On the earth and in the air,Save that footsteps here and thereOf some burgher home returning,By the street lamps faintly burning,For a moment woke the echoesOf the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbersStill I heard those magic numbers,As they loud proclaimed the flightAnd stolen marches of the night;Till their chimes in sweet collisionMingled with each wandering vision,Mingled with the fortune-tellingGypsy-bands of dreams and fancies,Which amid the waste expansesOf the silent land of trancesHave their solitary dwelling;All else seemed asleep in Bruges,In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimesAre the poet's airy rhymes,All his rhymes and roundelays,His conceits, and songs, and ditties,From the belfry of his brain,Scattered downward, though in vain,On the roofs and stones of cities!For by night the drowsy earUnder its curtains cannot hear,And by day men go their ways,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 innIn the narrow lanes of life,When the dusk and hush of nightShut out the incessant dinOf daylight and its toil and strife,May listen with a calm delightTo 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 singingThe bells of his own village ringing,And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyesWet with most delicious tears.

Thus dreamed I, as by night I layIn Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble,Listening with a wild delightTo the chimes that, through the nightBang their changes from the BelfryOf that quaint old Flemish city.