Henry Longfellow - The Complete Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As if an army smote their brazen shields,

And shouted victory!

Prec. And which way lies Segovia?

Vict. At a great distance yonder.

Dost thou not see it?

Prec. No. I do not see it.

Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge.

There, yonder!

Hyp. 'T is a notable old town,

Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,

And an Alcazar, builded by the Moors,

Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas

Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time

Out of its grated windows have I looked

Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,

That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,

Glides at its foot.

Prec. O yes! I see it now,

Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes,

So faint it is. And all my thoughts sail thither,

Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged

Against all stress of accident, as in

The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide

Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,

And there were wrecked, and perished in the sea!

(She weeps.)

Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bear unmoved

Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!

But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee

Melts thee to tears! O, let thy weary heart

Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,

Nor thirst, nor hunger; but be comforted

And filled with my affection.

Prec. Stay no longer!

My father waits. Methinks I see him there,

Now looking from the window, and now watching

Each sound of wheels or footfall in the street,

And saying, "Hark! she comes!" O father! father!

(They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.)

Chispa. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and

alack-a-day. Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither

win nor lose. Thus I was, through the world, half the time on

foot, and the other half walking; and always as merry as a

thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fly

said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience, and

shuffle the cards! I am not yet so bald that you can see my

brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and

come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

[Exit.

(A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a

carbine in his hand.)

Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses' hoofs!

Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,

This serenade shall be the Gypsy's last!

(Fires down the pass.)

Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo! Well whistled!—I have missed her!—O my God!

(The shot is returned. BARTOLOME falls).

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Table of Contents

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.