第34章 A TOMB IN GHENT(1)

A smiling look she had,a figure slight,With cheerful air,and step both quick and light;A strange and foreign look the maiden bore,That suited the quaint Belgian dress she wore Yet the blue fearless eyes in her fair face,And her soft voice told her of English race;And ever,as she flitted to and fro,She sang,(or murmured,rather,)soft and low,Snatches of song,as if she did not know That she was singing,but the happy load Of dream and thought thus from her heart o'erflowed:

And while on household cares she passed along,The air would bear me fragments of her song;Not such as village maidens sing,and few The framers of her changing music knew;Chants such as heaven and earth first heard of when The master Palestrina held the pen.

But I with awe had often turned the page,Yellow with time,and half defaced by age,And listened,with an ear not quite unskilled,While heart and soul to the grand echo thrilled;And much I marvelled,as her cadence fell From the Laudate,that I knew so well,Into Scarlatti's minor fugue,how she Had learned such deep and solemn harmony.

But what she told I set in rhyme,as meet To chronicle the influence,dim and sweet,'Neath which her young and innocent life had grown:

Would that my words were simple as her own.

Many years since,an English workman went Over the seas,to seek a home in Ghent,Where English skill was prized;nor toiled in vain;Small,yet enough,his hard-earned daily gain.

He dwelt alone--in sorrow,or in pride.

He mixed not with the workers by his side;

He seemed to care but for one present joy -

To tend,to watch,to teach his sickly boy.

Severe to all beside,yet for the child He softened his rough speech to soothings mild;For him he smiled,with him each day he walked Through the dark gloomy streets;to him he talked Of home,of England,and strange stories told Of English heroes in the days of old;And,(when the sunset gilded roof and spire,)The marvellous tale which never seemed to tire:

How the gilt dragon,glaring fiercely down From the great belfry,watching all the town,Was brought,a trophy of the wars divine,By a Crusader from far Palestine,And given to Bruges;and how Ghent arose,And how they struggled long as deadly foes,Till Ghent,one night,by a brave soldier's skill,Stole the great dragon;and she keeps it still.

One day the dragon--so 'tis said--will rise,Spread his bright wines,and glitter in the skies.

And over desert lands and azure seas,Will seek his home 'mid palm and cedar trees.

So,as he passed the belfry every day,The boy would look if it were flown away;Each day surprised to find it watching there,Above him,as he crossed the ancient square,To seek the great cathedral,that had grown A home for him--mysterious and his own.

Dim with dark shadows of the ages past,St.Bavon stands,solemn and rich and vast;The slender pillars,in long vistas spread,Like forest arches meet and close o'erhead;So high that,like a weak and doubting prayer,Ere it can float to the carved angels there,The silver clouded incense faints in air:

Only the organ's voice,with peal on peal,Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel.

Here the pale boy,beneath a low side-arch,Would listen to its solemn chant or march;Folding his little hands,his simple prayer Melted in childish dreams,and both in air:

While the great organ over all would roll,Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul,Bearing on eagle-wings the great desire Of all the kneeling throng,and piercing higher Than aught but love and prayer can reach,until Only the silence seemed to listen still;Or gathering like a sea still more and more,Break in melodious waves at heaven's door,And then fall,slow and soft,in tender rain,Upon the pleading longing hearts again.

Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow,That crept along the marble floor below,Passing,as life does,with the passing hours,Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers,Now on the brazen letters of a tomb,Then,leaving it again to shade and gloom,And creeping on,to show,distinct and quaint,The kneeling figure of some marble saint:

Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare,That told of patient toil,and reverent care;Ivy that trembled on the spray,and ears,Of heavy corn,and slender bulrush spears,And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow In summer,where the silver rivers flow;And demon-heads grotesque,that seemed to glare In impotent wrath on all the beauty there:

Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb,And so be drawn to heaven,at evening time.

And deeper silence,darker shadows flowed On all around,only the windows glowed With blazoned glory,like the shields of light Archangels bear,who,armed with love and might,Watch upon heaven's battlements at night.

Then all was shade;the silver lamps that gleamed,Lost in the daylight,in the darkness seemed Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine,Or trembling stars before each separate shrine.

Grown half afraid,the child would leave them there,And come out,blinded by the noisy glare That burst upon him from the busy square.

The church was thus his home for rest or play,And as he came and went again each day,The pictured faces that he knew so well,Seemed to smile on him welcome and farewell.

But holier,and dearer far than all,One sacred spot his own he loved to call;Save at mid-day,half-hidden by the gloom;

The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb:

For there she stands;her folded hands are pressed Together,and laid softly on her breast,As if she waited but a word to rise From the dull earth,and pass to the blue skies;Her lips expectant part,she holds her breath,As listening for the angel voice of death.

None know how many years have seen her so,Or what the name of her who sleeps below.