BELGIUM

When I may read of tilts in days of old,
And tourneys graced by chieftains of renown,
Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold,
If fancy would portray some stately town,
Which for such pomp fit theatre should be,
Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee.

Robert Southey.

Antwerp and Bruges

I

CLIMBED the stair in Antwerp church,
What time the circling thews of sound
At sunset seem to heave it round.
Far up, the carillon did search

The wind, and the birds came to perch
Far under, where the gables wound.

In Antwerp harbor on the Scheldt
I stood along, a certain space

Of night. The mist was near my face;
Deep on, the flow was heard and felt.
The carillon kept pause, and dwelt
In music through the silent place.

John Memmeling and John van Eyck
Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame
I scanned the works that keep their name.
The carillon, which then did strike
Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike:
It set me closer unto them.

I climbed at Bruges all the flight
The belfry has of ancient stone.

For leagues I saw the east wind blown;
The earth was gray. The sky was white.
I stood so near upon the height

That my flesh felt the carillon.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

Bruges

'HE spirit of antiquity enshrined

THE

In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song,

In picture, speaking with heroic tongue,

And with devout solemnities entwined,

Strikes to the seat of grace within the mind:
Hence forms that glide with swan-like ease along;
Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng,
To a harmonious decency confined;
As if the streets were consecrated ground,
The city one vast temple dedicate
To mutual respect in thought and deed;
To leisure, to forbearances sedate;
To social cares from jarring passions freed;
A nobler peace than that in deserts found.

William Wordsworth.

The Belfry of Bruges

(Bruges)

IN

CARILLON

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,