Poems (Procter)/A Tomb in Ghent
A TOMB IN GHENT.
SMILING look she had, a figure slight,With cheerful air, and step both quick and light;A strange and foreign look the maiden bore,That suited the quaint Belgian dress she wore;Yet the blue, fearless eyes in her fair face,And her soft voice, told her of English race;And ever, as she flitted to and fro,She sang, (or murmured, rather,) soft and low,Snatches of song, as if she did not knowThat she was singing, but the happy loadOf dream and thought thus from her heart o'erflowed:And while on household cares she passed along,The air would bear me fragments of her song;Not such as village maidens sing, and fewThe framers of her changing music knew;Chants such as heaven and earth first heard of whenThe master Palestrina held the pen.But I with awe had often turned the page,Yellow with time, and half defaced by age, And listened, with an ear not quite unskilled,While heart and soul to the grand echo thrilled;And much I marvelled, as her cadence fellFrom the Laudate, that I knew so well,Into Scarlatti's minor fugue, how sheHad learned such deep and solemn harmony.But what she told I set in rhyme, as meetTo chronicle the influence, dim and sweet,'Neath which her young and innocent life had grown;Would that my words were simple as her own. Many years since, an English workman wentOver the seas, to seek a home in Ghent,Where English skill was prized; nor toiled in vain;Small, yet enough, his hard-earned daily gain.He dwelt alone,—in sorrow, or in pride,He mixed not with the workers by his side;He seemed to care but for one present joy,—To tend, to watch, to teach his sickly boy.Severe to all beside, yet for the childHe softened his rough speech to soothings mild;For him he smiled, with him each day he walkedThrough the dark, gloomy streets; to him he talkedOf home, of England, and strange stories toldOf English heroes in the days of old;And, (when the sunset gilded roof and spire,)The marvellous tale which never seemed to tire:How the gilt dragon, glaring fiercely downFrom the great belfry, watching all the town,Was brought, a trophy of the wars divine,By a Crusader from far Palestine,And given to Bruges; and how Ghent arose,And how they struggled long as deadly foes,Till Ghent, one night, by a brave soldier's skill, Stole the great dragon; and she keeps it still.One day the dragon—so 't is said—will rise,Spread his bright wings, and glitter in the skies,And over desert lands and azure seasWill seek his home 'mid palm and cedar trees.So, as he passed the belfry every day,The boy would look if it were flown away;Each day surprised to find it watching there,Above him, as he crossed the ancient square,To seek the great cathedral, that had grownA home for him—mysterious and his own.
Dim with dark shadows of the ages past,St. Bavon stands, solemn and rich and vast;The slender pillars, in long vistas spread,Like forest arches meet and close o'erhead;So high that, like a weak and doubting prayer,Ere it can float to the carved angels there,The silver clouded incense faints in air:Only the organ's voice, with peal on peal,Can mount to where those far-off angels kneel.Here the pale boy, beneath a low side-arch,Would listen to its solemn chant or march;Folding his little hands, his simple prayerMelted in childish dreams, and both in air:While the great organ over all would roll,Speaking strange secrets to his innocent soul,Bearing on eagle-wings the great desireOf all the kneeling throng, and piercing higherThan aught but love and prayer can reach, untilOnly the silence seemed to listen still;Or gathering like a sea still more and more,Break in melodious waves at heaven's door,And then fall, slow and soft, in tender rain,Upon the pleading, longing hearts again.
Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow,That crept along the marble floor below,Passing, as life does, with the passing hours,Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers,Now on the brazen letters of a tomb,Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom,And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint,The kneeling figure of some marble saint:Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare,That told of patient toil, and reverent care;Ivy that trembled on the spray, and earsOf heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears,And all the thousand tangled weeds that growIn summer, where the silver rivers flow;And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glareIn impotent wrath on all the beauty there:Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb,And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time.And deeper silence, darker shadows flowedOn all around, only the windows glowedWith blazoned glory, like the shields of lightArchangels bear, who, armed with love and might,Watch upon heaven's battlements at night.Then all was shade; the silver lamps that gleamed,Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemedLike sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine,Or trembling stars before each separate shrine.Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there,And come out, blinded by the noisy glareThat burst upon him from the busy square.
The church was thus his home for rest or play;And as he came and went again each day,The pictured faces that he knew so wellSeemed to smile on him welcome and farewell. But holier, and dearer far than all,One sacred spot his own he loved to call;Save at midday, half-hidden by the gloom;The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb:For there she stands; her folded hands are pressedTogether, and laid softly on her breast,As if she waited but a word to riseFrom the dull earth, and pass to the blue skies;Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath,As listening for the angel voice of death.None know how many years have seen her so,Or what the name of her who sleeps below.And here the child would come, and strive to trace,Through the dim twilight, the pure, gentle faceHe loved so well, and here he oft would bringSome violet-blossom of the early spring,And, climbing softly by the fretted stand,Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand;Or, whispering a soft, loving message sweet,Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet.So, when the organ's pealing music rang,He thought amid the gloom the Maiden sang;With reverent, simple faith by her he knelt,And fancied what she thought, and what she felt;"Glory to God," re-echoed from her voice,And then his little spirit would rejoice;Or when the Requiem sobbed upon the air,His baby tears dropped with her mournful prayer.
So years fled on, while childish fancies past,The childish love and simple faith could last.The artist-soul awoke in him, the flameOf genius, like the light of Heaven, cameUpon his brain, and (as it will, if true) It touched his heart and lit his spirit, too.His father saw, and with a proud contentLet him forsake the toil where he had spentHis youth's first years, and on one happy dayOf pride, before the old man passed away,He stood with quivering lips, and the big tearsUpon his cheek, and heard the dream of yearsLiving and speaking to his very heart,—The low, hushed murmur at the wondrous artOf him who with young, trembling fingers madeThe 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 passed on, and stillThe young musician bent his heart and willTo his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grownMore dear to him, and even more his own;And as he left it every night he prayedA moment by the archway in the shade,Kneeling once more within the sacred gloomWhere 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 sideSaw in him but the gentle friend and guide,The patient counsellor in the poor strifeAnd 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 beHis pupils in the art of harmony.One day a voice floated so pure and freeAbove his music, that he turned to seeWhat 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 betrayedNo 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 passed; each morning saw the maiden stand,Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand,Eager to study, never weary, whileRepaid by the approving word or smileOf 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 moreWithin 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 feltThat a great gift of God 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 knewHow the melodious wingèd hours flew; Who loved his art as none had loved before,Yet prized the noble, tender spirit more.While the great organ brought from far and nearLovers of harmony to praise and hear,Unmarked by aught save what filled every day,Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away:And now by the low archway in the shadeBeside 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 goDown the dark winding stair to where belowThe mother knelt, within the gathering gloomWaiting 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 childForgot her passionate 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 passed in tears away,As reassured 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 moreEchoed 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 yetAn organist whose name they all forget.He has a holier and a nobler fameBy poor men's hearths, who love and bless the nameOf a kind friend; and in low tones to-daySpeak tenderly of him who passed 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 aloneTo English kinsmen she had never known:And here she came; the foreign girl soon foundWelcome, 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 wentTo kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.