The artist-soul awoke in him, the flame Of genius, like the light of Heaven, came Upon his brain, and (as it will, if true) It touched his heart and lit his spirit, too His father saw, and with a proud content Let him forsake the toil where he had spent His youth's first years, and on one happy day Of pride, before the old man pa.s.sed away, He stood with quivering lips, and the big tears Upon his cheek, and heard the dream of years Living and speaking to his very heart-- The low hushed murmur at the wondrous art Of him, who with young trembling fingers made The great church-organ answer as he played; And, as the uncertain sound grew full and strong, Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along, And thrill with master-power the breathless throng.

The old man died, and years pa.s.sed on, and still The young musician bent his heart and will To his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grown More dear to him, and even more his own; And as he left it every night he prayed A moment by the archway in the shade, Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom Where the White Maiden watched upon her tomb.

His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame, Cold Time had sobered, and his fragile frame; Content at last only in dreams to roam, Away from the tranquillity of home; Content that the poor dwellers by his side Saw in him but the gentle friend and guide, The patient counsellor in the poor strife And petty details of their common life, Who comforted where woe and grief might fall, Nor slighted any pain or want as small, But whose great heart took in and felt for all.

Still he grew famous--many came to be His pupils in the art of harmony.

One day a voice floated so pure and free Above his music, that he turned to see What angel sang, and saw before his eyes, What made his heart leap with a strange surprise, His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild, As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled; Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart, And music overflowing from her heart.

But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betrayed No marble statue, but a living maid; Perplexed and startled at his wondering look, Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook; The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare, Fluttered and died upon the trembling air.

Days pa.s.sed; each morning saw the maiden stand, Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand, Eager to study, never weary, while Repaid by the approving word or smile Of her kind master; days and months fled on; One day the pupil from the choir was gone; Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more, Within the poor musician's humble door; And to repay, with gentle happy art, The debt so many owed his generous heart.

And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt That a great gift of G.o.d within him dwelt; One who could listen, who could understand, Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand, While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew How the melodious winged hours flew; Who loved his art as none had loved before, Yet prized the n.o.ble tender spirit more.

While the great organ brought from far and near Lovers of harmony to praise and hear, Unmarked by aught save what filled every day, Duty, and toil, and rest, years pa.s.sed away: And now by the low archway in the shade Beside her mother knelt a little maid, Who, through the great cathedral learned to roam, Climb to the choir, and bring her father home; And stand, demure and solemn by his side, Patient till the last echo softly died; Then place her little hand in his, and go Down the dark winding stair to where below The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom Waiting and praying by the Maiden's Tomb.

So their life went, until, one winter's day, Father and child came there alone to pray-- The mother, gentle soul, had fled away!

Their life was altered now, and yet the child Forgot her pa.s.sionate grief in time, and smiled, Half wondering why, when spring's fresh breezes came, To see her father was no more the same.

Half guessing at the shadow of his pain, And then contented if he smiled again, A sad cold smile, that pa.s.sed in tears away, As re-a.s.sured she ran once more to play.

And now each year that added grace to grace, Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl's face, Brought a strange light in the musician's eyes, As if he saw some starry hope arise, Breaking upon the midnight of sad skies.

It might be so: more feeble year by year, The wanderer to his resting-place drew near.

One day the Gloria he could play no more, Echoed its grand rejoicing as of yore; His hands were clasped, his weary head was laid, Upon the tomb where the White Maiden prayed: Where the child's love first dawned, his soul first spoke, The old man's heart there throbbed its last and broke.

The grave cathedral that had nursed his youth, Had helped his dreaming, and had taught him truth, Had seen his boyish grief and baby tears, And watched the sorrows and the joys of years, Had lit his fame and hope with sacred rays, And consecrated sad and happy days-- Had blessed his happiness, and soothed his pain, Now took her faithful servant home again.

He rests in peace: some travellers mention yet An organist whose name they all forget.

He has a holier and a n.o.bler fame By poor men's hearths, who love and bless the name Of a kind friend; and in low tones to-day, Speak tenderly of him who pa.s.sed away.

Too poor to help the daughter of their friend, They grieved to see the little pittance end; To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart, To bear the lonely orphan's struggling part; They grieved to see her go at last alone To English kinsmen she had never known: And here she came; the foreign girl soon found Welcome, and love, and plenty all around, And here she pays it back with earnest will, By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill; Deep in her heart she holds her father's name, And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame; And while she works with thrifty Belgian care, Past dreams of childhood float upon the air; Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn, That echoed through the old cathedral dim, When as a little child each day she went To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.

VERSE: THE ANGEL OF DEATH

Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?

How many a tranquil soul has pa.s.sed away, Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim, To the eternal splendour of the day; And many a troubled heart still calls for him.

Spirits too tender for the battle here Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms; And children, shuddering at a world so drear, Have smiling pa.s.sed away into his arms.

He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain, Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart: Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain, And bid the shadow of earth's grief depart.

He will give back what neither time, nor might, Nor pa.s.sionate prayer, nor longing hope restore.

(Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,) He will give back those who are gone before.

Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.

VERSE: A DREAM

All yesterday I was spinning, Sitting alone in the sun; And the dream that I spun was so lengthy, It lasted till day was done.

I heeded not cloud or shadow That flitted over the hill, Or the humming-bees, or the swallows, Or the trickling of the rill.

I took the threads for my spinning, All of blue summer air, And a flickering ray of sunlight Was woven in here and there.

The shadows grew longer and longer, The evening wind pa.s.sed by, And the purple splendour of sunset Was flooding the western sky.

But I could not leave my spinning, For so fair my dream had grown.

I heeded not, hour by hour, How the silent day had flown.

At last the grey shadows fell round me, And the night came dark and chill, And I rose and ran down the valley, And left it all on the hill.

I went up the hill this morning To the place where my spinning lay-- There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remained of my dream to-day.

VERSE: THE PRESENT

Do not crouch to-day, and worship The old Past, whose life is fled, Hush your voice to tender reverence; Crowned he lies, but cold and dead: For the Present reigns our monarch, With an added weight of hours; Honour her, for she is mighty!

Honour her, for she is ours!

See the shadows of his heroes Girt around her cloudy throne; Every day the ranks are strengthened By great hearts to him unknown; n.o.ble things the great Past promised, Holy dreams, both strange and new; But the Present shall fulfil them, What he promised, she shall do.

She inherits all his treasures, She is heir to all his fame, And the light that lightens round her Is the l.u.s.tre of his name; She is wise with all his wisdom, Living on his grave she stands, On her brow she bears his laurels, And his harvest in her hands.

Coward, can she reign and conquer If we thus her glory dim?

Let us fight for her as n.o.bly As our fathers fought for him.

G.o.d, who crowns the dying ages, Bids her rule, and us obey-- Bids us cast our lives before her, Bids us serve the great To-day.

VERSE: CHANGES

Mourn, O rejoicing heart!

The hours are flying; Each one some treasure takes, Each one some blossom breaks, And leaves it dying; The chill dark night draws near, Thy sun will soon depart, And leave thee sighing; Then mourn, rejoicing heart, The hours are flying!

Rejoice, O grieving heart!

The hours fly fast; With each some sorrow dies, With each some shadow flies, Until at last The red dawn in the east Bids weary night depart, And pain is past.

Rejoice then, grieving heart, The hours fly fast!

VERSE: STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY