The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      THE BELFRY OF BRUGES 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 chimes From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges.

      Then, with deep sonorous clangor 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. 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, 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 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, 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.

      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, 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, 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 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 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 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-Ble, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night Bang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city.

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      In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town.

      As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood.

      Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay.

      At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air.

      Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower.

      From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky.

      Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes,

      Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chanting of a friar.

      Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again;

      All the Foresters of Flanders—mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy Philip, Guy de Dampierre.

      I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold

      Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden argosies; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease.

      I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound;

      And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword unsheathed between.

      I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold, Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold;

      Saw the light at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west, Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest.

      And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat;

      Till the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, "I am Roland! I am Roland! there is victory in the land!"

      Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more.

      Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square.

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      This is the place. Stand still, my steed,

       Let me review the scene,

      And summon from the shadowy Past

       The forms that once have been.

      The Past and Present here unite

       Beneath Time's flowing tide,

      Like footprints hidden by a brook,

       But seen on either side.

      Here runs the highway to the town;

       There the green lane descends,

      Through which I walked to church with thee,

       O gentlest of my friends!

      The shadow of the linden-trees

       Lay moving on the grass;

      Between them and the moving boughs,

       A shadow, thou didst pass.

      Thy dress was like the lilies,

       And thy heart as pure as they:

      One of God's holy messengers

       Did walk with me that day.

      I saw the branches of the trees

       Bend down thy touch to meet,

      The clover-blossoms in the grass

       Rise up to kiss thy feet,

      "Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares,

       Of earth and folly born!"

      Solemnly sang the village choir

       On that sweet Sabbath morn.

      Through the closed blinds the golden sun

       Poured in a dusty beam,

      Like the celestial ladder seen

       By Jacob in his dream.

      And ever and anon, the wind,

       Sweet-scented

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