CARILLON. In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, Then, with deep sonorous clangor Silence on the town descended. On the earth and in the air, But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Of the silent land of trances 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, But deeming it no more, alas! Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long; The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumberous eyes' Wet with most delicious tears. |