CARILLON. In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, Then, with deep sonorous clangor Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, Of the silent land of trances 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 Yet perchance a sleepless wight, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, 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-Blé, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, TO A CHILD. DEAR child! how radiant on thy mother's knee, With merry-making eyes and jocund smiles, Thou gazest at the painted tiles, Whose figures grace, With many a grotesque form and face, The ancient chimney of thy nursery! The lady with the gay macaw, The dancing girl, the grave bashaw With bearded lip and chin; And, leaning idly o'er his gate, Beneath the imperial fan of state, The Chinese mandarin. With what a look of proud command Thou shakest in thy little hand The coral rattle with its silver bells, Making a merry tune! Thousands of years in Indian seas That coral grew, by slow degrees, |