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. 10

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. 16

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. 20

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; 25 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 b.l.o.o.d.y battle of the Spurs of Gold; 30

Saw the fight 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, 35 '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 pa.s.sed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. 40

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE CARILLON

ANTWERP AND BRUGES

At Antwerp, there is a low wall Binding the city, and a moat Beneath, that the wind keeps afloat.

You pa.s.s the gates in a slow drawl Of wheels. If it is warm at all 5 The Carillon will give you thought.

I climbed the stair in Antwerp church, What time the urgent weight of sound At sunset seems to heave it round.

Far up, the Carillon did search 10 The wind; and the birds came to perch Far under, where the gables wound.

In Antwerp harbour on the Scheldt I stood along, a certain s.p.a.ce Of night. The mist was near my face: 15 Deep on, the flow was heard and felt.

The Carillon kept pause, and dwelt In music through the silent place.

At Bruges, when you leave the train, --A singing numbness in your ears,-- 20 The Carillon's first sound appears Only the inner moil. Again A little minute though--your brain Takes quiet, and the whole sense hears.

John Memmeling and John Van Eyck 25 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. 30

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

For leagues I saw the east wind blown: The earth was grey, the sky was white.

I stood so near upon the height 35 That my flesh left the Carillon.

D. G. ROSSETTI.

HOLLAND

Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but the off-scouring of the British sand; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots when they heaved the lead; Or what by the ocean's slow alluvion fell, 5 Of shipwrecked c.o.c.kle and the mussel-sh.e.l.l; This indigested vomit of the sea Fell to the Dutch by just propriety.

Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, They, with mad labour, fished the land to sh.o.r.e: And dived as desperately for each piece 11 Of earth, as if 't had been of ambergris; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away; Or than those pills which sordid beetles roll 15 Transfusing into them their dunghill soul!

How did they rivet, with gigantic piles, Thorough the centre their new-catched miles; And to the stake a struggling country bound, Where barking waves still bait the forced ground; Building their watery Babel far more high 21 To reach the sea, than those to scale the sky.

Yet still his claim the injured ocean laid, And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played; As if on purpose it on land had come 25 To shew them what's their _mare liberum_, A daily deluge over them does boil; The earth and water play at level-coil.

The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, And sat, not as a meat, but as a guest; 30 And oft the Tritons, and the sea-nymphs, saw Whole shoals of Dutch served up for Cabillau; Or, as they over the new level ranged, For pickled herring, pickled heeren changed.

ANDREW MARVELL.

THE HAGUE

While with labour a.s.siduous due pleasure I mix, And in one day atone for the business of six, In a little Dutch chaise, on a Sat.u.r.day night, On my left hand my Horace, a nymph on my right; No memoirs to compose, and no post-boy to move, That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love. 6 For her neither visits nor parties at tea, Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee.

This night and the next shall be hers, shall be mine, To good or ill fortune the third we resign. 10 Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate, I drive in my car in professional state.

So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode; Men thought her Minerva, and him a new G.o.d.

But why should I stories of Athens rehea.r.s.e 15 Where people knew love, and were partial to verse, Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose In Holland half-drowned in interest and prose?

By Greece and past ages what need I be tried When The Hague and the present are both on my side; 20 And is it enough for the joys of the day To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?

When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow, As they gaze on my triumph do freely allow, That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is 25 So blest as the Englishen Heer Secretar' is.

M. PRIOR.

_The Hague, 1696._

ROTTERDAM

I gaze upon a city, A city new and strange; Down many a watery vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter, 5 And wonder where I am;-- And can _you_ be in England, And I at Rotterdam!

Before me lie dark waters, In broad ca.n.a.ls and deep, 10 Whereon the silver moonbeams Sleep, restless in their sleep; A sort of vulgar Venice Reminds me where I am,-- Yes, yes, you are in England, 15 And I'm at Rotterdam.

Tall houses with quaint gables, Where frequent windows shine, And quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line, 20 And masts of spicy vessels, From distant Surinam, All tell me you're in England, And I'm in Rotterdam.

Those sailors,--how outlandish 25 The face and garb of each!

They deal in foreign gestures, And use a foreign speech; A tongue not learned near Isis, Or studied by the Cam, 30 Declares that you're in England, But I'm at Rotterdam.

And now across a market My doubtful way I trace, Where stands a solemn statue, 35 The Genius of the place; And to the great Erasmus I offer my salaam,-- Who tells me you're in England, And I'm at Rotterdam. 40