m 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 ^' 
 
 ^^
 
 THE 
 
 CHIMNEYPIECE OF BRUGES, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 THE 
 
 Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 CONSTANCE K DIXON. 
 
 LONDON: 
 ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE CHIMNEYPIECE OF BRUGES - - - I 
 
 TRANSLATIONS : 
 
 THE EXISTENCE OF A LEAF - - "71 
 
 A SONG OF THE OAK - - - - 72 
 
 THE rose's mission - - - - 74 
 
 SAYINGS - - - - - - 75 
 
 ON THE SHORE - - - - - 11 
 
 TO THE BARD - - - - "79 
 
 SONNETS : 
 
 IN MEMORIAM.— CANON KINGSLEY - - 83 
 
 SNOWDROPS - - - - - 84 
 
 LILIES - . _ . - - 85 
 
 PANSIES - - - - - - 86 
 
 WHITBY ABBEY - - - - -87 
 
 THE FADED YEAR - - - - - 88 
 
 A DECEMBER SUNSET - - - - 89 
 
 HEIDELBERG CASTLE - - - - 90 
 
 POEMS : 
 
 UN TROUVERE _ - - - 93 
 
 EVENING AT LLANDUDNO - - - - 96 

 
 vi Contents. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 97 
 
 A SWEDISH LEGEND 
 
 TO LISA, ON HER BIRTHDAY - - - lOI 
 
 A DAY-DREAM - - - - - I03 
 
 EVENING - - - - - - 104 
 
 IN DER FREMDE - - - - - 105 
 
 SEHNSUCHT - - - - - 1 07 
 
 THE BROOK OF LIFE - - - - I08 
 
 SEVEN A.M. AT WHITBY IN SEPTEMBER - - IIO 
 
 MUSICAL MEMORIES - - - - II3 
 
 AN OLD ENVELOPE - - - - US 
 
 IN THE FIRELIGHT- - - - - 11? 
 
 SPIRITUAL FRIENDSHIP - - - - II9 
 
 A NOVEMBER MORNING - - - - 121 
 
 CONWAY BAY - - - - - 122 
 
 LILIES IN LONDON - - - - 1 24 
 
 TO MY MOTHER - - - - - 1 26 
 
 THE GERMAN EXILE BARD'S LAMENT - - 1 28 
 
 THE ROAMING SOULS - - - - I30
 
 THE 
 
 CHIMNEYPIECE OF BRUGES.
 
 THE CHIMNEYPIECE OF BRUGES. 
 
 Four centuries, with all their weight of woe, 
 Have rolled across the world, since one bright day 
 In which was wrought a tragedy as dark 
 As any, history's page recorded holds. 
 
 A.D, 1479. 
 
 It was a morning full of the glad light 
 Of early summer, when the trees put on 
 Their softest tints of green, and birds do sing 
 And carol all the happy hours of May. 
 Fair upon ancient Bruges fell the rays 
 Of joyous sunlight, touching pointed roofs 
 With gold, making white fronts of houses beam 
 Like angels' wings, bright'ning the belfry brown 
 And towers of ancient churches, till the walls 
 And mighty gates against the foe reared up 
 Had well nigh lost their grimness in the glow. 
 
 Outside the walls floweth the great canal 
 Which carries boats and merchandise to Ghent ;
 
 2 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 A pleasant roadway on the further side 
 
 Follows its course ; and here, beneath the trees 
 
 On that bright morning, with a springing step, ' 
 
 Walked the young burgher Andrea, blithe and gay. 
 
 His velvet mantle fluttered in the breeze, 
 
 The rapier glittered, by the sunbeams kisst, 
 
 And the small shadows of the shaken leaves 
 
 Danced o'er him as he past, and passing sang, 
 
 Out of the very gladness of his soul, 
 
 A song all sparkling with the joy of life. 
 
 For not a care had Andrea : passing rich, 
 
 His friends were kind, or seemed so; and his wife — 
 
 Marie the fair, the Rose of Brugge hight, 
 
 Pure as a pearl, and lovely as the day — 
 
 Two months before had made the sweetest bride 
 
 The town had e^er turned out to look upon. 
 
 He had but lately left her presence now, 
 
 And in the lay he sang was shrined her name, 
 
 A relic under filigree of gold ! 
 
 ANDREA'S SONG. 
 
 O joyous birds ! 
 Who carol high. 
 
 Who twitter low. 
 Who flutter nigh. 
 
 Then soar away
 
 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 
 
 Far, far, above the ken of man ! 
 
 O song-men sweet ! 
 Your notes repeat 
 In lovely May, 
 When lilies blow, 
 And all men wander forth who can ; 
 O blessed birds ! 
 
 "Marie! Marie!" 
 
 O flow'rets fair I 
 Along my path, 
 
 Ye touch the banks 
 In summer rath, 
 
 With golden light 
 And gleams of glory from the skies ! 
 Each blessed day 
 Of holy May 
 Your missals bright, 
 Give Marie thanks — 
 Ah ! fleet the month of Marie flies ! — 
 O flow'rets fair ! 
 
 "Marie! Marie!" 
 
 O waters bright 1 
 Ye softly slide 
 
 By city towers, 
 
 1—2
 
 4 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 
 
 Or gently glide 
 
 In silence deep 
 Where only Heav'n above you lies. 
 
 But sunbeams smile 
 On ev'ry mile, 
 As on ye creep 
 'Mid birds and flowers, 
 As gray and clear as Marie's eyes ! 
 O waters bright ! 
 
 "Marie! Marie!" 
 
 E'en as he closed his song he turned across 
 
 To pass through Porte Ste. Catherine to the town 
 
 When, from its deep embrasure, came a voice — 
 
 '' Marie ! the sweetest name that's heard on earth 
 
 Stands highest in the kalendar of Heav'n !" 
 
 Half fervent and half mocking was the tone ; 
 
 And Andrea started, coming face to face 
 
 With one who sprang towards him suddenly. 
 
 " Henri ! Good faith ! I took thee for a ghost, 
 
 Having no earthly adjunct but a voice !" 
 
 But Henri laughed, a hard and mirthless laugh — 
 
 " I am not yet so harmless as a ghost ! 
 
 For, hearing thy gay carol from afar, 
 
 I hid myself and waited thine approach, 
 
 To wake thee from the happy dreams of love."
 
 The CJmmieypiece of Bruges. 5 
 
 Andrea responded, with a sunny smile, 
 " It matters not, my friend, what dreams may fly 
 When ail that dreams can image is our own !" — 
 The sun was shining brightly, and the breeze 
 That blew through the old gateway was as soft 
 As airs which swept o'er Eden ere the Fall. 
 Why did the speaker shiver when the words 
 Had left his lips ? why draw his velvet cloak 
 Closely across his breast ? Henri's dark face 
 Was turned away a moment from his gaze, 
 Then he smiled back at Andrea : '' Hast thou time 
 To spare from the due worship of thy bride 
 To play a game of hazard with thy friend ?" 
 " Yea, truly I" answered Andrea : " Marie now 
 Is busied with her household, like that wife 
 Whose praise is in the Proverbs, saith our priest. 
 Let us go hence, to Mynheer Van Mael's inn 
 Which stands by Notre Dame — it is not far 
 From both our homes — and pass a pleasant hour 
 Ruling the fates of painted kings and queens." 
 
 Down the long Rue Ste. Catherine they passed, 
 Till at its end they came upon the church, 
 And close beside it, that most splendid house 
 Of the rich Sire de Gruthuyse : eight years since 
 They two had stood there oft, to watch his guest.
 
 6 The CJmnneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 The handsome English Edward, mount a horse ; 
 
 And passing by, they spake of those old days, 
 
 With later ones, when Henri was away 
 
 At Brussels, learning from a man of law. 
 
 " There thou might'st well have loved, one would 
 
 have thought, 
 My Marie," Andrea said ; " yet it appears 
 That, walking daily in the happy streets 
 Which saw the growing of her girlhood fair, 
 And speaking with her ofttimes in her home. 
 Thou still didst pass all heedless on thy way ! 
 Then, when at length her father back returned 
 From years of exile to his native Bruges, 
 Bringing its fairest flower, I wondered oft 
 That thou couldst see such beauty all unmoved." 
 Here Andrea stopt : for they had reached the door 
 Of Mynheer Van Mael's hostelrie, the Fox. 
 And ent'ring first, he saw not the strange look 
 In Henri's eyes, nor how his dark cheek paled, 
 But gaily called for cards, and led the way 
 To a small table in a deep recess. 
 Where a lad brought them mugs of Flemish ale. 
 Then, ere the game began, both doffed their caps, 
 And the soft sunlight from the window near 
 Fell full on Andrea — on his chestnut curls. 
 His strong white hands ; and brightened his blue 
 
 eyes,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 7 
 
 And seemed a sort of glory round him shed. 
 
 This caught the eye of Henri as he sate 
 
 In shadow opposite, and brought to mind 
 
 A picture of a martyr he had seen 
 
 In some fine church of Brussels long before. 
 
 Next came the thought : " This man whom I once 
 
 loved — 
 This man whom I now hate, as demons hate 
 The angels who have hurled them down to hell — 
 This happy handsome man, who is too glad. 
 Too full of his own joyous view of life, 
 To see the chasm yawning at his feet — 
 How is he like that martyr ? Truly soon, 
 If Marie will, it may be I shall teach, 
 As well as any priest, ' it is not good 
 To rest too much on any earthly joy !' 
 
 And yet, again, it may be " Here the voice 
 
 Of Andrea, breaking through his musings dark— 
 " Alas ! thou'lt take my queen, and she was all 
 By which I hoped to win the game ; my hand 
 To-day is poor, the cards are not well mixt." 
 But playing skilfully he long held out, 
 While Henri set a question on that game 
 And played it as if reading his own fate ; 
 Nor spake again, nor raised his coal-black eyes 
 Until he cried to Andrea, " I have won !
 
 8 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Behold the Knave of Hearts here in mine hand !" 
 
 The other laughed his careless merry laugh: 
 
 " Yea ! thou hast won ; it is not often so ! 
 
 Methought my luck was changeless, but it proves 
 
 Like that of other men. Shuffle the pack, 
 
 And let me try to bring it back again." 
 
 But Henri paused: "I would, in sooth, dear friend. 
 
 Had I not just bethought me of a thing 
 
 I should have done ere playing here with thee. 
 
 My mother bade me bring her quickly news 
 
 Of a sick friend near Porte Ste. Catherine : 
 
 I went, and asked about him, it is true, 
 
 But meeting thee, forgot to bear her word. 
 
 Thou knowest that her wrath is no light thing ; 
 
 So let me run and tell her of his state, 
 
 And wait thou here until I come again, 
 
 Sooner than thou hast dealt out all the cards." 
 
 He rose, put on his cap, and smiling went 
 
 (A smile that faded ere he reached the door) ; 
 
 While Andrea, left alone, shuffled the cards. 
 
 Then took a draught of ale, and dealt them out. 
 
 Next he leant back and idly hummed an air, 
 
 Noting how rude and yet how quaintly strong 
 
 Stood out some carved work o'er the chimney wide, 
 
 Wrought by a traveling craftsman who had come 
 
 To stay awhile in Bruges at the Fox.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. c 
 
 And gazing so, he thought : " I have some skill 
 Acquired from a more learned man than this, 
 Which Marie oft has praised, when I have carved 
 Some trifle for the house ; to pleasure her, 
 Pll have a cunning workman set fine wood 
 Over the fireplace of our dining hall, 
 And by the magic of my artist hand 
 Will people it with forms which shall endure 
 Long after ours have mouldered into dust. 
 My Marie ! men of times to come shall see 
 Thine image there, and marvel as they say, 
 ' Behold the loveliness of Andrea's wife ! ' 
 In sooth I'm glad that Henri left me here 
 To gain this thought from very idleness. 
 Good lack ! this spring air has a chill to-day. 
 Or some one is too active o'er my grave ! 
 Twice I have shivered as with wintry cold. — 
 Ah, Henri ! here at last ! Come, sit thee down ; 
 I had good time to shuffle well the cards ! 
 I judge thou found thy mother deemed thee slow 
 In bringing her the message, and blazed up. 
 And thou hast stayed to soothe her down again." 
 " Why, yes," said Henri, as he took his cards 
 And held them with a hand that slightly shook. 
 " But then she said while I was out had come 
 A post from Brussels, from her brother there,
 
 10 The Chiijineypiece of Bruges. 
 
 To ask me to conduct a case for him 
 This coming week ; so I must leave fair Bruges, 
 And thee, dear friend, ere sets to-morrow's sun ! " 
 " Poor Henri ! thou art pale ! this sudden news 
 Has startled thee from out the pleasant dream 
 Of placid life in Brugge. Troth ! my friend, 
 It grieves me too ; but let us play our game ; 
 The last, perchance, for many months to come/' 
 The gaudy gilded leaves, ablaze with red, 
 And blue, and purple, on their upper side, 
 According to the fashion of the time, 
 Flasht from hand to hand, while Andrea's luck 
 Stood firm once more, and soon he won the game; 
 Then rising, said to Henri, '' Thy dismay 
 At going back to Brussels, I believe, 
 Has let me win more quickly than is wont ! 
 Now I must hence ; Marie will welcome thee 
 If thou wilt come to share our noontide meal." 
 " I cannot come ! I must prepare— to leave. 
 Commend me to fair Alarie ! So, adieu !" 
 
 They parted in the doorway of the Fox, 
 
 And Henri went straight home; his mother's 
 
 house 
 Stood on the Dyver, facing a canal. 
 Andrea's, a few yards further, in the street
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 1 1 
 
 Still called the Rue de I'Eechout : the end house, 
 
 Joining the Dyver. He went not direct, 
 
 But turned into a lane behind the church, 
 
 To seek a carpenter to do the work 
 
 Which he had plann'd while waiting at the inn. 
 
 The man was out ; so Andrea, leaving word 
 
 That he should come for orders to the house, 
 
 Turned thitherward himself, full of bright thoughts 
 
 Of how his darling would rejoice to see, 
 
 Day after day, the creatures of his skill 
 
 Rise from the level surface of the wood. 
 
 Upon the Dyver, as he passed the home 
 
 Of Henri, for a moment^s space he saw 
 
 Him, looking from a casement just above, 
 
 And with a shade of sadness for his loss, 
 
 Andrea past on and stood at his own door. 
 
 He claspt the carved handle of the latch 
 And lifted it, and pressed the pond'rous gate, 
 Which yielded a foot's space, and then stood fast. 
 Surprised, he pushed again ; when Something red 
 Came slowly from beneath !—" God !" — with one 
 
 gasp, 
 With one low cry of horror and of dread, 
 He flung the force of his young manhood's might 
 Against the dumb resistance of the door,
 
 12 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 And its Dead Weight gave way another foot, 
 When from the impetus he fell within — 
 Not on the bare stone floor, but all across 
 A woman's feet and long blue 'broidered robe ! 
 
 Dabbled with blood he rose ! Alas ! he knew 
 The garb his Marie had that morning worn, 
 When he went forth all joyous for his stroll. 
 And yet his brain refused to trust his eyes. 
 His laughing Marie, this strange senseless Thing t 
 This ghastly corpse, with wide dull staring eyes 
 And jaw fallen low in death } with golden hair 
 Just showing 'neath a coif whose outer edge 
 Was crimsoned with the stream of her young life } 
 The dagger that had pierced her gentle heart 
 Lay near it, the bright blade all dim with gore! 
 And Andrea sickened at the sight, and yet 
 Still as a statue stood, as turned to stone, 
 A minute's space ; the pause before the storm 
 Of his wild grief brake out with one mad shriek. 
 
 His cry the household heard, and forth they came- 
 Had Marie fallen without a sound ? or why 
 Did no one rush to stay her murd'rer's hand 
 Or bring the wretch to justice, if too late ? 
 Why } save that menials never notice aught
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 13 
 
 Which might help those who feed them, only things 
 To turn to their discredit or their loss. 
 
 So now they came full quickly at that cry, 
 
 One man and two stout maids, and found their lord 
 
 KneeHng beside the body of his wife, 
 
 All bloody, with the dagger in his hand ! 
 
 And then they gave the wail they should have raised 
 
 A short time sooner, and the passers-by 
 
 Stopt startled in the street at such strange sounds. 
 
 And looking in at the half open door 
 
 One turned, and called for help, and "Murder ! ho !" 
 
 Then shudddering stood, nor dared to look again 
 
 At the grim sight which that one glance had shown, 
 
 Until a new man came, in haste to see, 
 
 Who also shouted " Murder !" and drew back. 
 
 And thus a crowd collected, in less time 
 
 Than one may tell how rapidly it grew. 
 
 And last among them came two Justices, 
 
 Old men, who had known Andrea from his birth. 
 
 These found him with the dagger still in hand, 
 
 But risen now, and gazing on the corpse 
 
 As if bereft of sense. And seeing there 
 
 The Rose of Bruges lie blasted at his feet, 
 
 Whom last they had seen blooming at a feast, 
 
 They stood as mute as less important men.
 
 14 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 'Twas Andrea broke the silence. " Am I mad ?" 
 Is this a dream ? a fearful dream ? O ! God ! 
 Help me to wake!" Then stooping, laid hishand^ 
 The left — on Marie's, lying on the ground ; 
 Recoiled, and dropt the dagger at her feet, 
 And turning wildly to the crowd behind — 
 " Ah, friends ! ye come too late to save her now ! 
 Too late ! alas ! Did no one see the blow 
 Which laid her here, and hurled me from the height 
 Of heaven, down to the deep abyss of hell ? 
 Did no man see it ? " in a whisper hoarse. 
 Holding out shaking hands towards his friends. 
 " See it ? " a hasty youth flung answer back. 
 " Good Mynheer Andrea ! not a man in Bruges 
 But would have fenced yon dainty golden head 
 From harm, with his own life, and been full glad ! " 
 The brave lad's words went home to Andrea's 
 
 heart — 
 Hardly the words ; but through the mist of woe 
 He felt their kindly sense like sunbeams fall. 
 And one deep sob broke from him, as again 
 He turned to where she lay ; and then his glance 
 Fell on the servants as they stood behind, 
 Near their fallen mistress, all agape and pale. — 
 Here they had been, all three, within the house 
 While that dread deed was doing three yards off!
 
 The Chwmeypiece of Bruges. 15. 
 
 This fact had flasht on Andrea's mind at last 
 
 As his shocked brain recovered power of thought. 
 
 " And ye ! how was it ye heard naught, nor came?" 
 
 The menials all were silent for a space, 
 
 Then one, a woman, framed their cold excuse : 
 
 " Mynheer, it was not any work of ours 
 
 To follow our fair mistress round the house. 
 
 So, by no fault of ours she met her death." 
 
 " 'Tis strange," a Justice said, "ye did not hear 
 
 Some cry from the poor lady as she fell, 
 
 With casements open just above the court, 
 
 And ye, we may suppose, at work within." 
 
 " An't please you, sirs, we were all three at work 
 
 Quite at the mansion's rear ; the maids upstairs, 
 
 I, in the garden, planting some new shrubs. 
 
 Not half an hour agone my lady came 
 
 To point out places where she wished them set, 
 
 And then went quickly back into the house. 
 
 I saw her not again until just now ; 
 
 When, having set the plants, I came within 
 
 To take her orders for my further work. 
 
 Then, as I entered the great hall, I heard 
 
 A noise, your worships, from the entrance door — 
 
 A strange dull noise, and then an awful cry, 
 
 A shriek that seemed to rend the very air. 
 
 The women heard it, and came rushing down,
 
 1 6 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 And out together from the house we ran, 
 To find my master here, dagger in hand, 
 With blood upon his garments, as ye see, 
 And the good mistress lying murdered thus." 
 So spake the man whom Andrea's kindness once 
 Had saved from starving. And the fickle crowd 
 Woke to a new suspicion at his words. 
 
 Andrea heard not the last ; that picture sweet 
 
 Of Marie giving orders 'mid the shrubs 
 
 Contrasted with her body at his feet, — 
 
 Her lifeless body, powerless and still. 
 
 Never again to pass with free firm step 
 
 About the house, filling it with the light 
 
 Of her fair presence, and the sweet clear tones 
 
 Of voice and laughter musical and glad, — 
 
 Had made too sharply clear his sense of loss 
 
 For the wrung heart or tortured brain to bear ; 
 
 And all unconscious of the fatal doubt 
 
 Cast on him by his servant's words, he sank 
 
 In a deep swoon upon the friendly arm 
 
 Of one of the old Justices, whose strength 
 
 Only sufficed to let him gently down. 
 
 Cold, pale, and senseless, at his dead wife's feet. 
 
 There was a stir amid the crowd at this, 
 
 While one was heard to murmur — " Mark ye that ?
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 17 
 
 Why should he faint just now and not before ?" 
 
 The kindly youth who spake to Andrea first 
 
 Knelt down beside him then, to bare his throat ; 
 
 And turning sharply on the serving man — 
 
 " Go, sirrah ; get me water to restore 
 
 The master unto whom thou owest all ! 
 
 Low breeding learns no gratitude, I trow, 
 
 Yet keep thy thoughts within thine own black heart. 
 
 But here a Justice interposed : " Good youth ! 
 
 We pass no judgment on the matter here. 
 
 There must be good grounds ere we tax our friend 
 
 With witting aught of poor Vrouw Marie's death. 
 
 Meseems it now were decent to remove 
 
 The corpse to her own bower, and leave her maids 
 
 To make her comely for her long repose. 
 
 But first let Andrea from the spot be borne 
 
 And laid upon a settle in the house ; 
 
 That when he wakes once more to life and woe 
 
 It may not be amid this ghastly scene." 
 
 Two neighbours, at the old man's words, came close, 
 
 And lifting Andrea, bore him to his hall, 
 
 The large chief chamber, where his thought had 
 
 been 
 To carve for Marie a fine mantelpiece. 
 They left the friendly youth to tend him there, 
 And hastened back to help remove the corse. 
 
 2
 
 1 8 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 A strong sail-cloth was brought, and passed beneath, 
 And then kind hands raised rev'rently the form 
 To which, an hour ago, they might have dreamt 
 Dim death could never come ; and by the door 
 Her own light feet so lately must have passed, 
 The feet of four, bearing her heavy weight 
 Crossed the long hall, and laid her in her bower. 
 Two burghers' wives, whom the great crowd had 
 
 brought 
 To see the matter, from their houses near. 
 Passed in behind, to take the present charge 
 Of the dead mistress and the frightened maids. 
 Her bearers scarce had reached the outer gate. 
 On their return, when Andrea slowly woke. 
 
 ''Where am I ? In this stream ? Is Marie here ? 
 What ! am I ill ? Sick unto death meseems ! — 
 Darkness, thick darkness round me ! And a dream, 
 Some awful dream ! — Air ! air ! I cannot breathe ! 
 So ! now I see. But, Jan, why art thou here .-* 
 
 Marie, where is Alas ! alas ! that door ! — 
 
 Jan ! is it true that she lies murdered there?" 
 
 " Dear Mynheer Andrea ! God will raise her up 
 
 And grant you union in a better world. 
 
 Where murderers and such are kept without." 
 
 But Andrea only shivered on his couch 
 
 And hid his face, and wrung his strong white hands.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 1 9 
 
 Young Jan could see the gate from where he stood ; 
 The man-servant was washing from the stones 
 The signs of carnage, and the crowd stood back, 
 But still stayed on to gossip and to gaze. 
 Just then there was a movement in their midst : 
 They parted to make way for an old man, 
 Richly yet gravely clad, who past beneath 
 The doorway's arch, and looked upon the ground, 
 The servant, and then, turning to the throng, 
 Seemed to be asking anxiously the cause 
 Of the strange scene. A Justice signed them all 
 To silence ; and then, Jan could see, he spoke 
 To the new-comer, as of some mischance 
 Far slighter than had really taken place. 
 The watcher's heart sank lower, for he knew 
 The tall spare form, a little bent with age, 
 The silver beard, and silken fur-edged cloak 
 Of Marie's father, to whose widowed heart 
 His child was dearer than a miser's gold ! 
 And doubtless now he came, as was his wont 
 In pleasant weather, from across the town. 
 To see how fared his darling, and to talk 
 With his new son about the latest news. — 
 Lo ! with his friend he turned toward the house ; 
 And the good lad went back to Andrea's side, 
 To seek to rouse him from his trance of woe, 
 
 2 — 2
 
 20 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Fearing his state would show the whole grim 
 
 truth ; 
 But this the Justice thought of, and he drew 
 The father, talking, to another room. 
 Here, with all gentleness and caution, born 
 Of ancient friendship and a kindly heart, 
 He gradually revealed that Marie's state 
 *'- Was grave.'-' " Nay, wellnigh hopeless." " From 
 
 a wound." 
 But when he had received these answers three 
 The burgher rose : " Old friend, where is my child V 
 I have not room for any thought as yet 
 Save that her state will brook of no delay, — 
 So take me quickly to her ! that these eyes, 
 These aged eyes, may see the last sad gleam 
 Of those which were their light for twenty years." 
 "Yet wait — a moment's space — her maids are there — 
 
 And too " " The leech } what matters that t lead 
 
 on!" 
 
 "Alas ! there is no leech ! — we had not time " 
 
 "Not time ? Ah ! do not tell me she is dead !" 
 A pause ; and then the Justice softly spake : 
 "Dear friend ! she might have had a death of pain 
 After long suff'ring : now, we well believe 
 One pang was all, ere her freed spirit fled." 
 The old man feebly sank into a seat,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 21 
 
 Aged a decade by this unbounded woe. 
 A few cold bitter tears crept slowly down 
 His withered cheeks, but still a weary daze 
 Of half unconscious pain it seemed as yet. 
 The friend beside him would have liefer seen 
 A violent grief, which might have worn itself 
 Out, like a storm, and left him calm again. 
 
 The stricken father raised his head at last — 
 " Why comes not Andrea ? Is he also dead ? 
 Fear not to tell me ! there is nothing left 
 Worth sorrow in the world, since she is gone. — 
 Gone !— but meseems I have not heard as yet 
 The cause—' a wound' didst thou not say ? But 
 
 how 
 Came she by wounds— a woman — in her home ?" 
 " That God doth know, my friend, and God must 
 
 judge ! 
 All men can tell is that we found her dead 
 Across the outer entrance of the house, 
 Stabbed to the heart by one sharp dagger blow, 
 And Andrea standing over her distraught." 
 *' My gentle Marie ! what a fearful end 
 Lay hid in God's dark providence for thee ! — 
 Alas ! grief makes us selfish ! let me now 
 Go to poor Andrea — his is equal woe —
 
 2 2 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 That we may mourn together o^er her bier." 
 So, leaning on his old friend's arm he past 
 Into the hall ; where Jan in the meantime 
 Had washed the stains from Andrea's hands and 
 
 dress, 
 On plea that they would shock the father's sight. 
 
 Now both the good Samaritans went out 
 
 To bid the crowd disperse ; and shut the gate. 
 
 The other Justice, they were told, was gone 
 
 Forth in the town, to seek for any clue 
 
 Which might lead home to who had done the deed. 
 
 " The good Saints send he soon may find the 
 
 wretch !" 
 The burgess answered sadly — " Ah ! my lad, 
 Sixteen is trustful, sixty years hold doubt ! " 
 The two kind friends, one hopeful, one afraid, 
 Re-entered the great hall, and as they went 
 A sound of heavy sobbing met their ears. 
 There, at the upper end, the old man sate, 
 Near Andrea's settle, in a carved chair — 
 His grey head bowed with grief, his thin pale hands 
 Resting on Andrea's shoulders, as he knelt 
 Low at the father's feet, convulsed with sobs, 
 Which shook his strong young frame, as in a storm 
 Trees may be shaken till their boughs give way.
 
 The CJiimneypiece of Bruges. 23 
 
 Sad was the scene ; and yet the Justice felt 
 That Mane's father had not his dark doubt ; 
 Andrea was still a son, stricken with woe 
 Deep as his own, upon whose fair bright head 
 His tears might fall in pity as in pain. 
 Jan and the burgess at the further end 
 Of the long chamber stood with sad respect, 
 Unwilling to intrude on sacred grief. 
 Only, Jan, looking in his elder's face, 
 Would seem to seek denial of his doubt. 
 Whereon the greybeard answered with a shake 
 Of his sage head : as he would say, " Alas ! 
 These sobs which touch thy heart are but the sign 
 And sounds of grim remorse which follows crime. 
 I know the world ; believe me, I am right !" 
 
 Just then, as if in answer to his thought, 
 The father of poor murdered Marie laid 
 A soothing hand on Andrea's shining head. 
 And begged him, in low, broken tones, to calm 
 " For her sweet sake " the woe her loss had wrought. 
 " Dark falls the doom on thee as me, my son ! 
 On thee, over whose sunny youth is cast 
 A shadow which shall darken all thy day. 
 On me, who had not many years to live, 
 And now shall sink in sorrow to my grave.
 
 24 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Till then, we are together in this grief ; 
 
 So rouse thee, that together we may stand 
 
 To look our last upon that angel face 
 
 Which made the light of both our lives on earth." 
 
 " Her face ? Oh ! father, look not on her face ! " — 
 
 And Andrea shuddered, raising not his head 
 
 From off the old man's knees, but claspt his robe 
 
 And sobbed again, convulsively and wild. 
 
 The Justice here came forward, calm and stern. 
 
 " Meseems her father needs must see her face ! 
 
 And that thy bearing, Andrea, is full strange ! 
 
 For manhood's sake restrain thyself, and think 
 
 How large a share of sorrow falls to him." 
 
 The hard words wrought what gentle ones had not: 
 
 The heavy sobbing ceased, and Andrea rose 
 
 And turned his tear-stained face towards his friends, 
 
 Ghastly and wan ; no more like the gay youth 
 
 Who walked that morning on the sunny road, 
 
 Than this sad house was like the home he left. 
 
 Then slow, with Marie's father on his arm, 
 
 He past to where she rested in her bower. 
 
 At their approach the women all came forth ; 
 But with the mourners entered the two friends, 
 Yet stood beside the door. There lay the dead ; 
 Not ghastly now, but in her bridal robes,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 25 
 
 With fair hands laid upon her placid breast, 
 Over the hidden death-wound, while the face 
 Had lost the awful look which Andrea saw, 
 And since had dreaded for 'her father's sight ; 
 Kind hands had closed the eyes, and deftly drawn 
 A silken stay beneath the falling chin, 
 Till now she lay all beautiful in death. 
 A wealth of golden hair, washed free from stain, 
 And with the matron's coif removed, lay loose 
 About her, as upon her marriage-morn. 
 
 The father bent and kissed the marble brow, 
 
 The icy lips ; then lifted up his voice 
 
 And wept aloud ; and then like Israel's king — 
 
 " My child ! would I had died for thee, my child !" 
 
 But Andrea in the meantime silent stood, 
 
 Rigid and white, but tearless, by the couch 
 
 Whereon lay all the blasted hopes of youth. 
 
 And in the utter silence of this woe 
 
 The Justice found a signet to his thought. 
 
 The first dark doubt had slowly gathered strength 
 
 Until it reached conviction, in his mind 
 
 Accustomed day by day to judge the acts 
 
 Of men whom passion moved to break the laws — 
 
 To judge them all by certain given rules 
 
 Of what would be the motive in each case,
 
 26 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 Or what the cause to lead to such result. 
 
 And so by now he had poor Andrea's name 
 
 Set in a certain column in his head — 
 
 A list of murderers who might have loved 
 
 The one their jealous fury reft of life. 
 
 And holding this, he could not stand and see 
 
 The confidence of Marie's hoary sire ; 
 
 But, sudden as the Nemesis of fate, 
 
 Swept to his old friend's side, and turning then, 
 
 Faced Andrea, and spake words which were his 
 
 doom ! 
 But slowly through the shadow of his brain 
 Pierced their dread import ; and the father first 
 Caught the dark meaning ; startled, raised his eyes 
 From his dead daughter's face to Andrea's, then. 
 Roused into speech by such a sudden shock, 
 " Old friend, what sayest thou ? That he struck the 
 
 blow 
 That laid our loved one here all dumb and cold ? 
 I cannot think ! I can but see my child ! 
 I can but dimly feel that thou art mad ! 
 This awful morning well might turn the wits 
 Of younger men than we. Alas! Alas!" 
 The Justice listened with a lofty look. 
 And would have made reply, but Andrea then 
 Awakened to the meaning of his speech,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 27 
 
 And all amazed, looked wildly in his face ; 
 
 Then gasped out — " I ? Thou sayest 'twas my 
 
 hand 
 That dashed the cup of joy from my own lips? 
 That plunged a dagger in this gentle heart 
 Which only beat for me ? Mother of God ! 
 Marie ! sweet Patron of my murdered love, 
 Take me from out this cruel world to her ! " 
 He raised his hands to heaven as he spake, 
 And Heaven seemed to hear the bitter cry ! 
 The raised hands sank as Andrea, fainting, fell 
 Across the frozen bosom of his wife. 
 
 Her father to the burgess turned : " Behold ! 
 Thy words were as a blow upon his heart. 
 My son is all that I have left me now ! 
 My Marie loved him, and he loved her well. 
 Go ! Take thy base suspicions otherwhere ! " 
 
 Then with Jan's help he laid him gently down. 
 
 And while the lad was seeking to restore 
 
 The wretched Andrea to a sense of woe, 
 
 The Justice sought to make his friend retire 
 
 To his own house. " Away from this sad scene 
 
 Thou wilt be better, and perchance ere long 
 
 Our watchmen may proclaim the murd'rer found."
 
 28 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 " Go hence with thy ' perchance ' ! It must be so. 
 He will be found ! But till that moment comes 
 I leave not Marie's husband, nor her home." 
 The burgess lingered till, long afterward, 
 Andrea gave signs of coming back to life, 
 Then left to join the gossips in the town, 
 And seek the other Justice ; whom he found 
 Rating the watchmen, since they brought no 
 
 news 
 Likely to solve the mystery of the crime. 
 And so the long warm afternoon wore on. 
 The Council held a meeting in their hall, 
 And sent forth men to search the city through ; 
 While every man was willing to give help, 
 For all were full of wonder and regret, 
 And trade was at a stand-still in the town. 
 Meanwhile the mourners in that house of woe 
 Waited for tidings through the weary hours. 
 In the new danger that now threatened him 
 Andrea took comfort in the old man's faith ; 
 While Marie^s father felt the man she loved 
 Was more to him than aught now left on earth. 
 So past the long sad day ; as days do pass. 
 However heavy be their weight of woe. 
 And through it all the belfry chimes rang on. 
 The weird old chimes which Marie loved to hear ;
 
 The Chimneypiece of Brtiges. 29 
 
 And when they chimed beneath the bright May 
 
 moon 
 Those two were still together near her couch. 
 
 Another morning dawned ; again the sun 
 
 Rose up in all his glory over Bruges, 
 
 And from short spells of unrefreshing sleep 
 
 Woke the two mourners to a sense of loss, 
 
 A dim unreal feeling of despair, 
 
 Before the full remembrance of their woe 
 
 Burst on them like a thunderclap again. 
 
 Then, while the morning shadows still lay deep. 
 
 And ere the town was very much astir, 
 
 Came Henri, to lament his friend's sad chance. 
 
 He too was pale and wan, as if the night 
 
 Had brought him more of sorrow than of sleep. 
 
 With sad respect he greeted the old man, 
 
 But Andrea with a passionate regret 
 
 Which made him feel how faithful was the friend 
 
 Who thus could grieve for knowing of his grief. 
 
 Henri explained he came not yestere'en 
 
 Because he could not rally from the shock 
 
 Of hearing the dire news, within an hour 
 
 Of their gay parting at the tavern's door. 
 
 The scene was fearful, so he had been told ! 
 
 And Andrea knew he loved him far too well
 
 30 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 To bear to be a witness of his woe. 
 
 But now, alas ! when he most wished to stay 
 
 To help his friend amid the last sad rites, 
 
 Another post from Brussels, urging him 
 
 To all despatch, had ridden in last night. 
 
 And thus it seemed that he must take his leave. 
 
 Not instantly, perhaps, but yet by noon. 
 
 Then went he close, and looked upon the corpse, 
 And showed such feeling, that the father^s heart 
 Warmed towards him as it never had before ; 
 For Henri was no favourite of his, 
 Neither of old in Brussels, nor of late ; 
 Yet now he seemed so gentle and so true 
 The old man had not heart to hate him more, 
 When spite of his own haste he lingered still 
 To see them take a little needed food 
 To fit them for the trials of the day. 
 Meanwhile they told him of the Justice' words, 
 With Andrea's danger, if no clue were found 
 To trace the criminal ; and his dark face 
 Paled as he listened : but he shook his head. 
 " Our friend the burgess will not find a soul 
 To second him in such a mad surmise." 
 Soon afterwards he left, to come again 
 Nearer to noon, and say the sad farewell.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 3 1 
 
 That word was never spoken ; for before 
 Another hour went round, the Justice came 
 With his mild comrade of the previous day 
 And other burgesses ; and in his hand 
 A scroll, from which he read indictment long 
 Of Andrea for the murder of his wife ! 
 
 Who only said : " Do with me as ye will ; 
 
 Life has small value now that she is gone. 
 
 If ye condemn me, sooner shall I flee 
 
 To her, and be at rest for evermore." 
 
 But Marie\s father sternly answered, " Stand ! 
 
 And tell us on what grounds ye set the charge !" 
 
 " Mynheer, the grounds are these : no man is found. 
 
 Though we have searched this whole great city 
 
 through, 
 Who could have had a motive for the act. 
 Nor anyone was seen about the house 
 Save Mynheer Andrea, whom his servants saw 
 Beside the lady, grasping in his hand 
 The bloody dagger, which they swore was his, 
 And lo ! we find his name upon the hilt." 
 One moment wavered then the old man's faith. 
 He turned to Andrea, but the gaze he met 
 Of those sad eyes, was not the look of guilt ; 
 And short the pause before he spake again :
 
 32 The CJiinnieypiece of Bruges. 
 
 " Remember, friends, I am a burgess too ! 
 I have a right to sit upon this case, 
 As any other, and I claim my right ! — 
 Friends did I call ye? your unrighteous act 
 In bringing guilt upon a guiltless head 
 Forbids me e'en to mourn my child in peace ! 
 But though my heart is broken by her loss 
 I still must do my duty as a man, 
 And justice as a burgess of fair Bruges. 
 My trust in Andrea stands on stronger ground 
 Than doth your doubt ; I know him well, 
 His noble heart, his temper sweet and calm. 
 And though 'tis true I love him as a son, 
 My love has not the weakness nor the strength 
 Of that which often from the tie of blood 
 Clings to unworthy objects. Now lead on ! 
 And in the Council Hall fair Truth shall stand !" 
 
 With burgesses before them and behind 
 The mourners past beneath the fatal gate ; 
 And as the old man leant on Andrea's arm, 
 He felt him shudder when they stept across 
 The threshold where his Marie met her death. 
 Then crossing Rue de I'Eechout, to the right, 
 Facing towards Rue Dominic, they went ; 
 That, and the Dyver, full of eager men
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 33 
 
 And restless women, waiting to catch sight 
 Of Andrea passing to the Judgment Hall, 
 And see the bearing of Vrouw Marie's sire. 
 Then, when the two came forward arm-in-arm, 
 Grief-worn, but yet united in their woe, 
 Something that dwells in every human heart, 
 A sense still handed down from Eden days. 
 Perceiving dimly what no words may speak 
 Of the divinity of Love and Faith, 
 Was touched, and vibrated among the crowd. 
 And found vent in a sort of smothered cheer, 
 Just as the party turned into a lane 
 Of humble houses, a short crooked way 
 Toward the ancient Palais de Justice. 
 Arriving there, they saw a crowd beyond 
 At the main entrance, and a burgess set 
 A key to a side-door, through which they past 
 Across the building to the Council Hall. 
 And waiting in that hall was all the weight 
 Of Bruges' wisdom ; portly men and grave. 
 Assembled to give judgment on a case 
 Such as not one of them had heard before. 
 
 The party entering, came a man-at-arms 
 To lead Andrea to the prisoner's stand. 
 A flush of scorn past over his pale face ; 
 
 3
 
 34 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 
 
 But Mane's father loosed his hold at once, 
 
 Then claspt his hand, and walked to his own seat 
 
 Among the Justices : who greeted him 
 
 Kindly and sadly, but with some surprise, 
 
 Both at his presence, with a daughter dead, 
 
 And that all kindly grasp of Andrea's hand. 
 
 At first there was a murmur of low talk, 
 
 With all eyes fixt upon the prisoner's face, 
 
 Who shrank not from their gaze, but after once 
 
 He had glanced round to see what friends were 
 
 there, 
 Stood as half-absent in his own sad thoughts. 
 
 A bell was rung for silence, when a hush 
 Fell, like the gathering of a mighty storm. 
 And then stood forth the City Advocate, 
 Who read the charge and made a learned speech 
 Which did not throw much light upon the case. 
 Next were the servants called to tell the tale 
 Of how they found their mistress lying dead. 
 The pris'ner was observed to shudder then 
 And rouse himself to hear the words they spake ; 
 And whiter grew his lips, as that grim scene 
 Was all brought back, with many needless words. 
 Yet at the close he summoned all his strength 
 To ask one question of the serving-man :
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 35 
 
 * Tell me, and tell this court : in all the days 
 
 Since I brought home my lovely sainted wife, 
 
 Had, to thy knowledge, any sign of wrath 
 
 Or word of anger, past between us twain?" 
 
 '' Not so ! Mynheer, but ever we did deem, 
 
 I and the maidens, that thou loved her well." 
 
 Then were the watchmen called, to make it known 
 
 How they had sought the whole great city through 
 
 And yet no trace of any man could find 
 
 Who had been seen to leave that house at noon, 
 
 Or had been missing from his home or trade. 
 
 And then the dagger, darkened o'er with blood 
 Was lifted from a table ; at that sight 
 Andrea grew ghastly, and one set a seat 
 On which he sank, as overcome with woe. 
 The lawyer's eyes were keenly noting all. 
 And turning to the burgesses at this. 
 He signed them to attention, and then spake : 
 " This dagger. Mynheer Andrea, bears thy name, 
 And by the witness of thy serving-folk 
 Was seen red in thy hand when that sad scream. 
 Which we suppose thy lady's, summoned them — " 
 " Which ye suppose 7?ty ladys ? Heaven and earth ! 
 Marie was dead when first I found her there !" 
 " Let me proceed/' spake slow the man of law ;
 
 ^6 The Chiinneypiece of Britges, 
 
 *' Three witnesses have sworn ^twas in thy hand ; 
 
 Now, Mynheer Andrea, is this weapon thine ?" 
 
 *' The dagger is my own, that word is true. 
 
 Yet not the one I wear, as ye may see. 
 
 That, on yon table, hung within our hall ; 
 
 But now, meseems, I have not seen it there 
 
 These last i^w days ; I have not thought before. 
 
 Yet now I do remember, it was not T' 
 
 The lawyer shook his head : it seemed to him 
 
 That this was just a clever subterfuge ; 
 
 But Marie's father answered from his place 
 
 Among the mighty burgesses of Bruges : 
 
 " Andrea, its absence is a point for thee 
 
 Strong in its bearing on the present doubt — 
 
 The doubt my friends here have, but I have not." 
 
 The pris'ner bent his head in sign of thanks. 
 
 And then the Advocate resumed :^ " We hear 
 
 That part of yester morning thou wert seen 
 
 In Mynheer Van Mael's hostelrie, the Fox ; 
 
 Is this correct?" "I was there! Would to God 
 
 I had not been ! for this could not have chanced." 
 
 " Then next we will call Mynheer Van Mael's name 
 
 That he may witness when thou wentest home." 
 
 The worthy host was waiting in the court. 
 So he responded to his name at once.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 37 
 
 And came, and testified with many bows 
 
 That " Mynheer Andrea left his house at noon, 
 
 Just as the belfry chimed ; he noted that 
 
 Because he heard it through the open door 
 
 As the two gentlemen were passing out." 
 
 '' The two ! who was the other ?" " 'Twas that 
 
 friend 
 Who dwells upon the Dyver ; he plays cards 
 Oft-times with Mynheer Andrea at my inn." 
 " He must be called, that we may question him," 
 Then Marie's father told how Henri came 
 To see them early, since he had to leave 
 Ere noon for Brussels ; and a man was sent 
 To stop and bring him straight ; who soon came 
 
 back 
 With news that Mynheer Henri was just gone 
 When he arrived ; but, knowing all the case, 
 His mother proffered evidence instead. 
 A shade of wonder past o'er Andrea's face, 
 That while he stood on trial for his life 
 His dearest friend would not delay one hour, 
 Nor seek to speak a word on his behalf; 
 And then he bowed his head within his hands ; — 
 What did aught matter now that she was gone } 
 But the kind father, with his own deep grief 
 So nobly set aside, that he might help
 
 38 The Chiimtey piece of Bruges. 
 
 Another, more afflicted than himself, 
 
 Felt the slight for him ; and his nod was curt 
 
 When Vrouw Van Ekker entered the great hall, 
 
 And when her name was called would fain begin 
 
 With words of woe at seeing her two friends 
 
 In such affliction. " Spare us that, good Vrouw ! 
 
 We must be hard within this hall of law. 
 
 Our friend the Advocate desires to ask 
 
 How near to noon thy son came yestern home 
 
 From playing cards with Andrea at the Fox ? 
 
 And for the sake of the accused we pray 
 
 Thou wilt give heed, and seek to be exact." 
 
 But Vrouw Van Ekker answered quick and clear, 
 
 " It was not longer than five minutes' space 
 
 Since I had heard the belfry, when he came." 
 
 There was dread silence in the hall at this. 
 All felt the doubt grow darker at her words. 
 Van Mael had sworn they left his inn at noon. 
 Andrea looked sadly up, too stunned to see 
 The links the law was forging, one by one, 
 To chain him to the crime which wrought his woe. 
 Then spake the burgess who first made the charge 
 *' Andrea, the two last witnesses agree, and prove 
 Thou left'st the Fox at twelve ; how was it then 
 That when we found thee by thy murdered wife
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 39 
 
 Full twenty minutes had gone by, and yet 
 Thou dost pretend thou wert that moment come ? 
 How past the time between, if it were not 
 The space in which the fatal quarrel sped ?" 
 Andrea arose, the weary worried look 
 Was crost an instant by a flash of fire — 
 " There was no quarrel ! on my oath to God ! 
 Nor all thy wordy law can prove there was ! 
 I turned from Van Mael's inn, by Notre Dame, 
 Into the lane behind, to seek a man, 
 A cunning carpenter, to set fine wood 
 Above the fireplace in our hall, that there 
 I might carve Marie a brave mantelpiece. 
 The man was forth, I only saw a child, 
 Seeming half simple ; and then home I went." 
 " Good ! we will send to fetch the child at once ; 
 The law allows all theories till the proof." 
 Another pause, while one went out to seek 
 That carpenter, and fetch the foolish child. 
 And Vrouw Van Ekker, who was ever kind 
 Where kindness could not cause her any loss, 
 Turning to Andrea with her sweetest smile, 
 Told him her Henri's latest word had been 
 Of loving .sympathy in his distress. 
 And he had begged that she would send a post 
 Directly on the ending of the case.
 
 40 The CJiimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Just at that moment Andrea^s mind went back 
 
 To Henri leaving him in haste at cards 
 
 To take her message, and a strange wild thought 
 
 Just flashed athwart his brain, and made him ask : 
 
 " When Henri left me waiting at the inn 
 
 Some half an hour before we both went home, 
 
 Was it to thee he ran, or other where ?" 
 
 But Vrouw Van Ekker answered glibly, " Troth ! 
 
 He came to me^ he told thee why he came." 
 
 [Yet this was false ! She had not seen her son 
 
 Till he and Andrea parted, after twelve ; 
 
 When he informed her of a quick resolve 
 
 To do what she had oft besought in vain — 
 
 To leave his idle life in Bruges, and work 
 
 In Brussels with his uncle, at the law. 
 
 Then asked for horses for himself and man, 
 
 That he might start " while yet his will was good." 
 
 And she had answered, " by the morrow all 
 
 Should be in readiness for him to go." 
 
 One hour, and then the news of Marie's death 
 
 Had reached them ! Yet he went not with the 
 
 crowd. 
 And fain had kept her from it ; but she ran. 
 Eager to see, and not so overcome 
 With horror at the tale as was her son.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 41 
 
 But when they parted his last words had been 
 A warning — " Mother, every man in Bruges 
 Is- open to suspicion of this deed ; 
 My danger is the greatest, as I went 
 So often there. Now, if they call for thee 
 To question of my movements yesterday — 
 So ! — softly — I left Andrea at the cards 
 And said I came to thee, ere our last game ! 
 Hush ! I will tell thee all another time ; 
 But swear I came to thee, and that a post 
 Had come from Brussels at that very time. 
 Swear ! for my guiltless life is in thy hand ! 
 Farewell !" — and hardly had his horse's hoofs, 
 Or his strange words ceased ringing in her ears, 
 Ere came the message from the Council Hall.] 
 
 Poor Andrea felt a pang of self-reproach, 
 
 Hearing her ready answer ; could he doubt 
 
 Henri, in truth of either deed or word ? 
 
 And now the child for whom the lawyer sent 
 
 Was led into the hall, and set beside 
 
 The centre table, where he stood and stared 
 
 In stupid wonder at the novel scene. 
 
 The Advocate then asked if he could show 
 
 A person there whom he had lately seen ? 
 
 But when at length he seemed to understand
 
 42 TJie CJiimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 He turned and slowly pointed to the man 
 
 Who then had fetched him from his father's shop. 
 
 Andrea arose. " My child, dost thou know me f 
 
 Some moments gazed the boy with open mouth 
 
 Or ere he, very slowly, shook his head. 
 
 Among the burgesses there passed a look. 
 
 The lawyer pressed the question — " Come, now 
 
 think ! 
 Hast thou not seen that gentleman before ?" 
 Alas ! the half-wit only shook his head ! 
 Once more they tried, but with the same result, 
 Then let him go ; and having asked, for form, 
 If other witnesses had aught to tell ? 
 The Advocate gave orders to remove 
 The prisoner, that his judges might confer. 
 And soon as none but burgesses were left 
 Within the hall, began their business grave. 
 
 The truth brake bitterly on Marie^s sire 
 Ere many minutes past; of all the men 
 Sitting in judgment on his daughter's death, 
 None held her husband guiltless, save himself ! 
 The old man shuddered as he heard them speak, 
 One after one, for well he knew the fate 
 Then meted to all murderers in Bruges. 
 He knew that if found guilty death by fire
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 43 
 
 Awaited one whom he had grown to love 
 
 E'en as the son he lost long years before ! 
 
 And Marie's easy end seemed not so sad 
 
 As that most awful tragedy to come. 
 
 He lifted up his heart in prayer, and rose 
 
 In turn, and spoke such words of faith as shook 
 
 The doubting ones, but hardened all the rest, 
 
 Who deemed him partly in his dotage now, 
 
 Or shielding Andrea for his credit^s sake. 
 
 Long waged the war of words ; but when the votes 
 
 At last were taken, only three were found, 
 
 Besides his own, to favour the accused ! 
 
 The milder Justice of the day before 
 
 Was one of these ; he could not quite forget 
 
 He had known Andrea all his blameless youth. 
 
 But these few votes were not enough to prove 
 
 His innocence, nor stop the course of law. 
 
 And soon the Advocate arose and read 
 
 The legal notice, that they had agreed 
 
 To hold the prisoner guilty, saving four. 
 
 Then, with all haste, to stop a last appeal 
 
 From Marie's father, the accused was called, 
 
 And all the crowd came back into the court. 
 
 Once more the bell was rung, and silence fell 
 
 Ere echoed through the hall the words of doom, 
 
 Sentencing Andrea, since the Council found
 
 44 ^^^^ Chiimieypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Him guilty of the murder of his wife, 
 To suffer death by roasting at a fire ! 
 
 A thrill of horror ran through all who heard, 
 And some who held him guiltless shouted "Shame!' 
 Andrea turned white — a moment nature shrank 
 From thought of torture to the tender flesh ; 
 Then solemnly he raised his hands on high — 
 " I do declare, in presence of that God 
 To Whose tribunal I shall pass from yours, 
 That He shall find me innocent of blood ! 
 Look to yourselves, O burgesses of Bruges !" 
 
 Two hours had passed away, two awful hours, 
 While kindled and blazed high the fatal fire ; 
 Not in the Market Place, but (from respect 
 To Marie's sire in private all should be) 
 Within the gloomy Palace of the Franks. 
 With him, and his confessor, Andrea sate 
 In converse high, seeking a martyr's strength, 
 Until the Captain of the Guard arrived 
 With men-at-arms to lead him to his doom. 
 
 A large bare chamber, with three windows tall, 
 Yet placed so high that nought could be beheld 
 Beyond them, save the sky ; the doors set wide,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 45 
 
 And, not in the sheer centre of a wall, 
 
 But nearer to the windows, blazed the fire — 
 
 A fearful fire within the chimney wide ! 
 
 A strong stake fastened to the oaken floor 
 
 Showed where the victim would be bound in front. 
 
 The father made a sign to stop the men 
 
 From going straightway to their ghastly work, 
 
 And to the Council made a last appeal. 
 
 They trembled, and some wavered; but their pride 
 
 Forbade them to revoke their cruel word. 
 
 " 'Tis sad, 'tis painful ! but it is the law. 
 
 We do adjudge him guilty, so proceed !" 
 
 But as they bound him to the fatal stake, 
 
 And Andrea raised his eyes in prayer above, 
 
 A thought was sent in answer, and he spake : 
 
 " Here, on the brink of death, I do protest 
 That ye condemn me innocent to die ! 
 To die a death of agony for nought ! 
 Ye speak of justice to the holy dead ; 
 Beware ! lest her pure spirit at the Throne 
 Appeal for judgment on the town of Bruges ! 
 Have mercy while ye may, and hearken now : 
 Grant me a respite while I carve a thing 
 Such as but yestern I designed for her — 
 A mantelpiece in mem'ry of this day,
 
 46 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Set up above this hearth on which I stand 
 And feel the fire scorch as the flames of hell, 
 Which shall envelop all who are unjust ! 
 God and Marie have mercy ! Turn their hearts !" 
 
 The dead wife's father bent his aged knees 
 Beside the victim, and the priest stood out, 
 Holding the Rood aloft — 
 
 " By Him who died 
 In agony on this for all our sins 
 I charge ye, pause ! In Christ my Master's name 
 I do declare the innocence of him 
 Whom I have shriven ! Justices of Bruges ! 
 Beware ! and bring not blood upon your souls !" 
 
 Then looked upon each other those stern men, 
 And three came out, and stood by Andrea close 
 (Those three who voted for him in the Hall). 
 One flung his cloak to shield the victim's face. 
 " No man withstanding, we would loose his chains!' 
 Outspake another ; and swift answer came — 
 " Unbind the prisoner ! we would not be wrong !" 
 
 Then burgesses, and not the men-at-arms, 
 Tore off in haste the chains, already hot : 
 And, drawn away, fell Andrea on his knees
 
 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 47 
 
 And kissed the crucifix his priest held out, 
 And offered thanks to GOD for this His grace. 
 But Marie's father claspt him to his breast 
 And wept, losing at last the self-command 
 He had sustained throughout the cruel day. 
 So for a space no man had heart to speak. 
 At length a stern old Justice gathered voice : 
 
 ** Andrea, strong pressure has been brought to bear 
 
 Upon thy judges ; truly GOD He knows 
 
 Not one of us but strives to judge aright. 
 
 And yet men's judgment is not always true. 
 
 Still we must tell thee, though we spare thy life, 
 
 For thy strong protestation, and the faith 
 
 Of thy wife's father, and this holy monk, 
 
 Our own conviction is the same as erst ; 
 
 So till Vrouw Marie's murderer is found 
 
 We hold thee prisoner as the one accused." 
 
 But Andrea answered : " Ye have spared my life, 
 
 I bless you for your mercy. Let me now 
 
 Work in my prison as I have proposed. 
 
 And I will make so marvellous a thing, 
 
 E'en in this gloomy chamber where we stand, 
 
 As shall endure as long as Bruges shall last ; 
 
 A monument of mercy unto you, 
 
 A symbol of my sorrow ever more !
 
 48 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 Firm is my faith in GOD ! I do not doubt 
 That He who hath preserved me from the fire 
 Will prove my innocence in His good time, 
 And find the fiend who wrought the cruel wrong. 
 I have been thoughtless in my happy youth, 
 But now I bow beneath His chastening Hand." 
 
 A.D. 1509. 
 
 Again that gloomy room, with windows three, 
 But near them what a miracle of Art ! 
 Above the fireplace wide where Andrea stood 
 Doomed to destruction, thirty years ago, 
 There dwells a little world of wondrous forms 
 Carved by his cunning hand, day after day, 
 Year after year ; as, fed on prisoner's fare. 
 And watched continually by men-at-arms, 
 He wrought the mighty monument of woe, 
 And peopled it .with splendid kings and queens, 
 And left his murdered Marie's lovely face 
 To last for ever in her native land. 
 
 And there, too, Andrea stands ; but ah ! how 
 
 changed ! 
 The stalwart form is shrunken to a shade.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 49 
 
 The blue eyes laugh no more, but slow and sad 
 
 Follow and guide the chisel at its work ; 
 
 The chestnut hair is faded, yet not grey, 
 
 Still in thin curls above the broad, lined brow. 
 
 That feeble figure, and that pale worn face 
 
 Are not the signs of five-and-fifty years, 
 
 But depths of woe not measured out by time. 
 
 Marie's kind father long ago has gone 
 
 To join his darling in the better land. 
 
 Loving and trusting Andrea to the last. 
 
 Although his ceaseless efforts failed to find 
 
 A clue to the dark myst'ry of her death. 
 
 And still the artist at his endless work 
 
 Lives on in faith that God will clear his name 
 
 Before he enters into life and rest. 
 
 Nor always sad is he, but sometimes sings 
 
 Some lay of youth, or his own thoughts in rhyme. 
 
 And this May morning, while the chisel chips. 
 
 He trills a lyric to his long-lost bride. 
 
 ANDREA'S SONG. 
 
 Thirty long years, Marie ! Marie ! 
 Thirty long years to-day have sped. 
 Since that bright morn so long ago 
 When all my joy was turned to woe. 
 When home I came and found thee dead ! 
 
 4
 
 50 The Chi7nney piece of Bruges. 
 
 To-day is bright, Marie ! Marie ! 
 
 And something of my youth comes back, 
 The sense of sunshine in those days 
 O'er which the light of memory plays, 
 
 When I had all that now I lack. 
 
 And yet not all, my saint Marie ! 
 
 For I have bought the Pearl of Price 
 With all that earth could give me here, 
 Rest, liberty, and thou, most dear ; 
 
 And can the payment yet suffice ? 
 
 When at the Gate, my bride Marie ! 
 
 Thy white-robed soul shall welcome mine, 
 And lead me to the Saviour's feet. 
 Whose sufferings made mine complete, 
 
 Shall I at life's lost years repine ? 
 
 Ah, no ! for then, my lost Marie ! 
 
 Thou wilt be mine for evermore, 
 
 And ne'er dark fate nor weapon keen 
 Can part us in that land, I ween, 
 
 Where all things live but to adore ! 
 
 I thought to carve for thee, Marie ! 
 
 A lasting memory in wood. 
 
 That should adorn thy dwelling-place 
 And keep in mind thy lovely face 
 
 As long as stately Bruges stood.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 5 1 
 
 My work is well-nigh done, Marie ! 
 
 Yet not within our own fair hall. 
 Man's erring judgment did its part, 
 God's fires have purified my heart ! 
 
 And I can trust Him now for all. 
 
 And on this sweet May morn, Marie ! 
 
 I feel a sense of coming bliss, 
 
 Which whispers weary work is o'er. 
 That soon from captive toil I soar, 
 
 To seek thy spirit's soothing kiss. 
 
 So Andrea sung ; and shadowed in his song 
 •The silent warning sweeping through his soul 
 Nor knew how that same noontide at the Fox 
 (The selfsame inn where thirty years before 
 He spent the last gay morning of his life) 
 A sick man, who had come the previous night 
 With many servants, and all signs of wealth 
 Off a long journey, to the famous inn, 
 Drew near his end ; and sent to seek a priest 
 To speed his soul in safety to that bourne 
 From whence no traveller may make return. 
 And Mynheer Van Mael, the all-courteous son 
 Of that all-courteous host of long ago, 
 Went up meanwhile to see how fared his guest. 
 And the sick man made signs that he should sit. 
 
 4—2
 
 52 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 
 
 Then feebly murmured of the days long gone, 
 When he remembered Van Mael in his youth. 
 Next, questioned if he knew him ? But mine host^ 
 Whose creed was never to forget a guest, 
 Howe'er remote the trav'ller's stay might be, 
 Was fain to bow, and rub his hands, and " deem 
 That illness must have changed his patron's face, 
 Yet soon he should recall it, surely soon !" 
 '* Nay ! Mynheer Van Mael ; I was not thy guest, 
 But thy good father's, many days and oft 
 When time hung all too heavy on my hands ; 
 I found it pass more gaily at the Fox, 
 With youthful comrades, over painted cards/' 
 
 The sick man paused, and slightly shuddered here ; 
 Then, turning his dark eyes to Van Mael's face — 
 " Henri Van Ekker — dost thou know me now ?" 
 "Know thee, Mynheer ! in sooth! But ah! how 
 
 changed — 
 Yet pardon me ! it is so long ago ! 
 I was a stripling then, and stood full oft 
 To watch those games ; when, if thou chanced to 
 
 play 
 With Mynheer Andrea (the saints pity him !), 
 I would revolve within my boyish mind 
 Which were the nobler, finer gentleman.'"
 
 The Chimney piece of Bruges. 53 
 
 " And he, poor Andrea, still he lives and toils ?" 
 " Alas ! Mynheer, that wretch was never found 
 Who slew Vrouw Marie, so his work goes on. 
 Yet my good father never would believe, 
 Nor yet can T, that he had aught of guilt." 
 A servant entered — 
 
 " Sirs, the holy man !" 
 And Van Mael, rising, bowed himself away, 
 While the priest took his seat beside the bed. 
 
 But Henri glanced with fear at his stern face, 
 E'en while he gave the greeting of the Church. 
 For this confessor was a man austere, 
 Devout, crampt by a hard and narrow faith, 
 Which made him echo in his daily life 
 Rather the Pharisees' unbending law 
 Than that of Christ the Lord, Whose yoke was light. 
 Stern penances he gave, nor his own sins 
 Passed over unchastised. In early youth, 
 Before the chilling convent froze his heart, 
 He had been Andrea's friend ; and still sometimes 
 Would softly enter that most gloomy room 
 Where the sad prisoner silently did toil, 
 To speak a word of comfort in his ear, 
 Borrowed from Holy Writ ; for he believed 
 That Andrea's innocence must yet be proved.
 
 54 The Chimneypiece of Brttges. 
 
 Van Ekker felt that time for him was short, 
 And though this was no sleek and easy monk 
 To use soft words and cover every sin 
 With golden angels for his convent's use, 
 Still he must free his conscience from a crime 
 Hidden too long, and get it blotted out 
 Before he went to his account above, 
 Lest Purgat'ry for him should turn to Hell. 
 
 First came the leech to give a cordial strong, 
 
 And raise his patient's head for easier speech, 
 
 Then left the soul's physician to his work. 
 
 The sick man's breath came shorter, half with fear. 
 
 Half with approaching death ; and this the priest 
 
 Observing, hastened to direct that first 
 
 He should confess whatever deadly sins 
 
 Were marked upon the tablet of his life, 
 
 And only after these were wiped away 
 
 (Should time be granted) faults of less degree. 
 
 "Ah ! holy father, let me now bespeak 
 The Church's utmost clemency of thee ! 
 I have a tale to tell I have not dared 
 Breathe into mortal ear. Nigh half my life 
 It has lain hidden in the shade asleep. 
 But now, before I stand in Heaven's light, 
 I would assoil it by thy kindly help.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 55 
 
 And oh ! good father, bear it in thy mind 
 That I, confessing, make my best amends. 
 Not as the proud rich man shall I depart ! 
 My tale when told to thee will leave my name 
 Branded in Brugge ! — Thirty years to-day 
 I did the deed of which I now repent. 
 
 I had a friend named Andrea " here the priest 
 
 Started and flushed, and then with eyes downcast 
 Bent lower, that he might not lose a word — 
 " Who on that dreadful day of which I speak 
 Had been united near about two months 
 With one whom I had hoped to call my own." 
 
 Again on Henri flashed the stern grey eyes 
 Of the confessor, for a moment's space. — 
 " Father thou art a priest, but yet a man ; 
 Consider my temptation, and my grief! — 
 We met in Brussels, where her father dwelt 
 All her bright girlhood ; thither I was sent 
 To study law. Alas ! I studied love ! 
 And there long time I wooed her, but in vain. 
 'Twas all in secret, for I knew her sire 
 (Who bore an ancient grudge against my house) 
 Would bar his door if he should read my heart. 
 So when fair Marie bade me hope no more, 
 I prayed that she would tell no living man
 
 56 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 That I had sought her love ; for so I thought, 
 Her father still unknowing, I might chance 
 Another day to win a softer word. 
 For half I doubted if she loved me not. 
 
 Then they returned to Bruges ; my evil fate 
 
 Bound me to Brussels till the year was out. 
 
 But at the Christ-tide home I went, and found 
 
 My friends rejoicing in their native town. 
 
 The father made a burgess, and the girl 
 
 More beautiful than ever ; full of joy 
 
 To see the old man 'mid his ancient friends 
 
 So honoured and so welcome in fair Bruges. 
 
 He and my widowed mother, foes at heart, 
 
 Had yet made outward peace, so I was free 
 
 To hang about their home as I was wont. 
 
 And then I found the closest friend I had, 
 
 Andrea, the comrade of my boyish days, 
 
 Had caught the old man's fancy, by his grace, 
 
 His sunny beauty and his joyous air. 
 
 And Marie told me he was like the son 
 
 Her father lost while she was yet a child — 
 
 * My kind half-brother' — and I heard a sigh. 
 
 Andrea, who had no parents of his own, 
 
 Was glad to hover round the Justice old 
 
 And share his daughter's smiles ; yet she was kind,
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 57 
 
 And still I doubted if she loved me not." 
 The sick man paused exhausted, and the priest 
 Hastily held a cordial to his lips : 
 He drank it and revived, and soon resumed. 
 
 " Then came a shock that shattered half my hope ! 
 When the first snowdrops glistened on the ground, 
 (I love not flowers, but those since then I hate !) 
 Gay Andrea told me, as we paced along. 
 That he believed fair Marie's heart was his ! — 
 How of the father he had asked her hand, 
 Who granted it, * so Marie gave her love ;' 
 And how he hoped to win her word that eve. 
 And then he turned, and held a hand to me — 
 ' Old friend ! I love her in my deepest soul !' 
 I took his hand, a sort of nettle-plant 
 Which I must grasp, and mumbled what I might 
 Of gratulation, with my heart on fire ! 
 
 '* His suit had all success, and many days 
 
 Past ere I saw Marie to speak alone. 
 
 * Is this thy wish t Has Andrea won thy love ?' 
 
 I questioned sternly, and she made reply, 
 
 Maidenly mild : ' It was my father's wish, 
 
 And I can bend me gladly to his will' 
 
 A frank true word might then have saved us both ; 
 
 But now I doubted if she loved me not.
 
 58 The Chimneypiece of B7'uges. 
 
 " In March there came the marriage, and I stood 
 By Andrea in a sort of nightmare dream, 
 He knowing nothing of the past ; I bound 
 His bride to special secrecy with him, 
 ' Lest it should mar our friendship, old and true !' 
 Then oft I saw her in her husband's house, 
 And loved her not the less, but ever, more ! 
 And — since I must confess the truth to win 
 Whole absolution, I still dared to hope 
 That she would fly with me to some far land ! 
 'Twas true that she was blithe as some bright bird 
 Through all those sweet spring days. But I was 
 
 mad ! 
 For still I doubted if she loved me not. 
 
 '* And daily grew my hatred more intense 
 To him who robbed me of the Rose of Bruges, 
 Until at last I swore within my heart 
 That I would win her, or that she should die ! 
 I could not bear the sight of Andrea's joy." 
 (The Priest sat motionless, to hear the whole, 
 Yet fiercely clenched his hands beneath his robe.) 
 " I laid my plans : within their hall there hung 
 A jewell'd dagger Andrea seldom used ; 
 'Mid many weapons it would not be missed. 
 I took it down and hid it 'neath my cloak —
 
 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 59 
 
 If other arguments should fail, then This ! 
 With the blame falling on the name it bore. 
 And then I only waited time and chance 
 To offer Marie life with me, or death. 
 These, ere two days were over, both I found. 
 For meeting Andrea on a stroll one morn. 
 Singing a joyous stave anent his love, 
 I drew him to this inn to play at cards, 
 And set a secret stake, that if I won 
 It was a sign to seek Marie at once. 
 The game was mine ! So bidding Andrea wait, 
 I left him there, and in a space returned. 
 
 " But in that space ? Father, assoil me now ! 
 Marie, as ofttimes, opened the yard door 
 Herself, and here was just the chance I sought ! 
 With sweet words I began, and told her how 
 The love of years grew greater and not less — 
 And she reproved me gently, ' she had hoped 
 I held her as a friend apart from love. 
 This was not fitting — she was Andrea's wife.' 
 " Yea, so ! most by thy father's will, I wot ! 
 Andrea's light nature cannot love like mine. 
 We do him no great wrong. Sweet ! fly with me 
 And thou shalt find the older love the best' 
 She stabbed me with her eyes — 'And thou his friend
 
 6o The Chimney piece of Bruges. 
 
 More than a brother, I have heard him say !' 
 " He came between us twain, and won thy sire 
 First, with the flatteries that old men love ; 
 He was more crafty than myself : he knew 
 His interest ! I but thought of thee ! — 
 Now listen, Marie ! Promise to be mine 
 And this mad marriage shall be swept away, 
 And all be bliss ! But if thou still refuse, 
 Beware ! Thou shalt not live as Andrea's bride !' 
 Marie's gray eyes flasht fire : ' Away ! I scorn 
 Thy coward threat as thy unholy love ! 
 And since no thought of honour checks thee 
 
 know 
 That I love Andrea as I love my soul !' 
 
 " Then die ! ' 
 
 *' I plunged his dagger in her heart 
 And as she fell, with only one low cry, 
 I tore it out, and flung it down and fled." 
 As his long tale went on, the sick man's voice 
 Grew firmer with the strength excitement gives ; 
 Yet at the end he sank exhausted back — 
 " Father, absolve me quickly, ere I die V 
 
 But still the grim confessor spake no word ; 
 For in his frosty breast, so long unmoved, 
 The Man rose up and overcame the Priest !
 
 The CJmnneypiece of Bruges, 6 1 
 
 A moment's deadly silence ; then the storm 
 Of righteous human wrath broke out and raged 
 Above the dying, cow'ring criminal, 
 As, springing to his feet, with flashing eyes, 
 He thundered forth — 
 
 " Son of the Evil One I 
 Villain ! and wretch I — I cannot find fit words — 
 I, used to tales of every sort of crime ; 
 I, that for thirty years have heard of sins. 
 Until I deemed I knew all that are wrought 
 In this dark world ! — I cannot find a word 
 With which to name thy cruel crime. ' Absolve !' 
 Father above ! can I, or any priest, 
 Bearing Thy mercy to the penitent, 
 Presume to stretch its grace to such as This ? — 
 One who could first destroy with ruthless hand 
 A fair and faithful daughter of the Church, 
 And then allow the man he had bereaved 
 To suffer in his stead ! death, or a fate 
 Far worse than death, the slowest martyrdom 
 On record in the world ! Thirty long years 
 Of weary toil without the artist's meed 
 Of praise, save when the splendour of his work 
 Surprised a word or two from men who deem 
 E'en to this day, that his God-gifted hand 
 Could strike the gentle heart which loved him well
 
 62 The Chimneypiece of Bruges. 
 
 Thirty long years of woes beyond all words, 
 Borne with a noble patience which hath preached 
 Christ's gospel every day to those around. 
 While thou hast lived in luxury and ease, 
 Thy seared conscience giving thee no pain, 
 Howbeit doubtless thou didst often hear 
 The fame of that fine Mantelpiece at Bruges, 
 On which a weary wight had worked for years. 
 And knew, in thy black heart, that sculptor sad 
 Was wearing out his life in dark disgrace 
 Among his fellow-men for thy foul crime ! 
 And yet no thought of boyhood's happy hours, 
 When Andrea had been all a brother might, 
 Could move thee to a care to right the wrong ! 
 Heav'n were not Paradise if such as thou 
 Could crawl, like reptiles, through the Pearly Gate. 
 Nay ! ask not absolution ! Only fear 
 Can move to right in such a serpent's soul ! 
 I was a Man before I was a Priest, 
 And man was made God's image, and Christ died 
 That man might rise to what he once had been, 
 By seeing and by loving Christ's pure life. 
 But when a soul for whom He died rejects 
 His grace, and turns aside to do dark deeds. 
 Careless of pardon till the parting hour, 
 It is the sin against the Holy Ghost.
 
 The Chimneypiece of Britges, 6 
 
 a 
 
 To such no priest of God hath power to say — 
 
 * Rejoice ! Thy God forgives, thou shalt not die!'" 
 
 Then came a gasp, an awful rattling sound, 
 
 And on the pillow Henri's head fell back, 
 
 A stare of terror in the eyes ; but ere 
 
 The priest's loud call could bring the waiting leech, 
 
 That crime-stained soul went forth to face its fate. 
 
 The grav^e physician came, and closed the eyes ; 
 And lifting high his crucifix, the Priest — 
 " In manus tuas, Domine !" — no more. 
 Then turning to the leech : " Before us lies 
 The man who slew Marie, poor Andrea's bride ! 
 Do thou tell Van Mael, spread the news abroad ! 
 While I go straight to set the prisoner free." 
 
 And waiting not for words with any man. 
 Went the confessor to the Council Hall, 
 Where sat the burgesses to hear a cause ; 
 Which ending as he entered, he stood forth 
 And told them all the tale of the past hour, 
 Amid a breathless silence, save some sounds 
 Of horror and regret from those who heard. 
 And when it closed an ancient Justice rose : 
 
 ' May God forgive our fathers, or ourselves.
 
 64 The Chimneypiece of Bruges, 
 
 All who had part in this most cruel wrong ! 
 I, woe is me ! and some my compeers, sate 
 On that dread day, just thirty years ago. 
 Yet most are gone ; for them be masses said, 
 To pray the saints for succour to their souls ! 
 Meanwhile, my friends, to set our martyr free ! 
 Truly I wonder not that through these years 
 God's wrath has ever seemed to hang o'er Bruges, 
 While naught has thriven in our guilty town ! 
 Come, holy father !" Then with one consent 
 The Council went to Andrea at his work, 
 From some vague feeling that it were not fit 
 To have him fetched to stand before them there. 
 
 'Twas not an hour since he had ceased his song, 
 And still his mind was dwelling on the past ; 
 That sweet, sweet spring, such weary years ago ! 
 Before the murder like a chasm cleft 
 A bridgeless gulf between his sunny youth 
 And all the dark hereafter of his life. 
 And then it turned to Henri, his dear friend 
 Who died so early, far away in France ! 
 But sent a message with his latest breath 
 To bid him hope, for surely must be found, 
 Ere long, the man whose crime had wrought his 
 woe.
 
 The Chimneypiece. of Bi'ttges, 65 
 
 Just then the sound of many hasty feet 
 Roused Andrea from his reverie ; they came 
 Close to the door on his right hand ! — a pause — 
 And while the watching soldier stood to arms 
 With thought of public riot, raised to free 
 All pris'ners of the State, that door flew wide. 
 And there stood all the burgesses of Bruges 1 
 They entered singly, doffing their square caps 
 To Andrea, as a token of respect ; 
 Who stood aghast^ the chisel in his hand, 
 Waiting to wit the cause of this strange scene. 
 Was it release ? his work was well-nigh done — 
 Yet why among them came his friend the Priest ? 
 So half in hope and half in fear he stood. 
 When all were in, the oldest burgess spake : 
 
 " Andrea, we come to bring thee joyful news ! 
 Come all together, since we crave a boon — 
 Pardon ! for us who did condemn thee once. 
 Pardon ! for us who still have kept thee here ! — 
 Truth will to light at last ! This holy man, 
 Long time thy friend, and not so blind as we, 
 Has just confessed the slayer of thy wife. 
 Who, dying, has escaped the death by fire." 
 
 The chisel from the carver's fingers fell,
 
 66 The Chimney piece of Bi'uges. 
 
 He reeled, and prest one hand upon his heart, 
 Then whispered hoarse — 
 
 " Who did it ? say the name !" 
 " Henri Van Ekker ! who played cards that day. 
 ]\Iay God forgive our error ! Thou art free !" 
 
 Free in good sooth ! Free from the yoke of toil, 
 Free from the burden of his heavy grief, 
 Free from all errors of this darkling earth ! — 
 In face of these, his judges, who once set 
 The stake and fire within that very hall, 
 In front of his great life-work, which had been 
 The solace and sole int'rest of long years, 
 And aye should stand, the monument of him 
 Condemned to die before a mantelpiece 
 And of the power of fire, guiltless of crime, — 
 The artist's worn-out frame fell to the ground ! 
 Too weak to bear the sudden shock of joy, 
 The wonder of release ! While Henries guilt 
 Snapt the last chord of life's frail trembling harp! 
 
 A cry of grief from all the Council rose. 
 And softly falling on his knees, the Priest 
 Held high the Cross, and raised the dying head. 
 But that grand soul, so gifted by his God, 
 So long afflicted by his fellow-man, ,
 
 The Chimneypiece of B^^uges. 67 
 
 Sped swiftly up towards the Shining Gate. 
 
 And purified by Purgatory here, 
 
 (Yet saved alone through Him who died and rose) 
 
 Past glorified into the blessed rest 
 
 Of Martyrs dwelling by the Crystal Sea. 
 
 5—2
 
 TRANSLATIONS.
 
 THE EXISTENCE OF A LEAF. 
 
 From the Gerinajt of Riickert. 
 
 O HOW sweet is of a leaf the lifetime 
 
 Soft Spring winds 
 
 Have rocked it lightly. 
 
 'Neath smiling sunny skies so blue, 
 
 Sweetly fed with heavenly dew, 
 
 Never from its native land 
 
 Hurled away to distant strand, 
 
 Thus its summer-time it keeps. 
 
 Now it sweeps 
 
 Dead, yet softly beaming, 
 
 With a pale light gleaming, 
 
 While the wild winds mournful rave 
 
 Borne by Autumn to its grave.
 
 A SONG OF THE OAK. 
 
 From the German of R. Lowe^zstezn. 
 
 A STORM has been my greatest foe ; 
 Aye, since my days of childhood, 
 It ever sought to work me woe, 
 And thought to strike me earthward ; 
 But still, as greater danger grew, 
 More firmly I'd my vow renew : 
 
 " ril stand against the tempest !" 
 
 When others to the wind in fear 
 Bow themselves low and tremble, 
 I look on him and hold him here 
 Between my mighty branches. 
 Weak neighbour-trees who round me dwell 
 In German style protect I well : 
 I stand against the tempest !
 
 A Song of the Oak. "j^ 
 
 When fierce and cruel comes his grasp 
 
 Among my vaHant branches, 
 
 My roots the earth more firmly clasp 
 
 And I stand strong and fearless. 
 
 I grew in German ground so free, 
 
 I know I am a German tree ; 
 
 I stand against the tempest !
 
 THE ROSE'S MISSION. 
 
 Frojn the German. 
 
 To Alexis send I thee ; 
 He, my rose, will tend thee kindly, 
 Smile thou on him sweet and friendly, 
 
 Let him dream he seeth me. 
 
 Fresh, a bud begun to blow, 
 Send I thee ! his lips will press thee, 
 Then, while thus he doth caress thee. 
 
 He will all thy message know. 
 
 Softly, as a kiss, thou'lt say, 
 With thy lips just half unclosing, 
 Where, in noontide's heat reposing, 
 
 He must think of me to-day.
 
 SAYINGS. 
 
 From the Gerjnan of Novalis. 
 
 What suits, must be adapted ; 
 What understands, be comprehended 
 What is good, will be blended ; 
 What loves, together be. 
 What hinders, must give way ; 
 What is crooked straight must lay ; 
 What is far off, end its stay ; 
 What buds, must blossom be. 
 
 II 
 
 Give me faithfully thine hand ; 
 Be a brother to me, and 
 Thy true glance, until thine end, 
 Turn not again from me !
 
 76 Sayings. 
 
 One temple where we bow, 
 One place to which we go, 
 One bliss, for that we glow ! 
 One Heaven for thee and me !
 
 ON THE SHORE. 
 
 Fro77t the German of Anastatius Grim. 
 
 On heaped up bales of goods doth tend 
 The merchant rich so gladly ; 
 
 A fisher poor just now doth mend 
 His tattered nets most sadly. 
 
 Here oft pass strong and gay-deckt ships, 
 Whilst rotten wrecks lie in the sand ; 
 
 The haven here, and there the reefs ; 
 Flood and ebb, upon the strand. 
 
 Here bright sun, but storm clouds there; 
 
 Here silence, and there singing, 
 Returnings here, and partings there 
 
 Sails furled, and outward flinging.
 
 yS On the Shore. 
 
 Two maidens sit on the sea strand, 
 One weeping o'er the ocean ; 
 
 The other, garlands in her hand, 
 Throws roses 'mid its motion. 
 
 One, gloomy Sorrow's woeful child, 
 Groans out, with secret tremble : 
 
 " O sea ! O sea ! so sad and wild, 
 How dost thou life resemble !" 
 
 The other, image of bright joy, 
 
 Cries from her happy heart now : 
 
 '* O sea ! O sea ! so light and mild, 
 Of life true image art thou !" 
 
 Forth roared the sea, and sounded o^er 
 The gladness, as the groaning ; 
 
 Forth roared the sea, and ah ! it bore 
 Away both tears and roses !
 
 TO THE BARD. 
 
 Fro7n the GermaJi of Riickert. 
 
 When within the human spirit 
 Thou wouldst play on ev'ry chord, 
 
 Tune not thou the note of sorrow 
 Till its sound with joy accord. 
 
 Many a one exists, who never 
 Feels delight, however brief, 
 
 And none lives but guardeth silent 
 In his breast a secret grief.
 
 SONNETS.
 
 IN MEMORIAM. CANON KINGSLEY. 
 
 January 23, 1875. 
 
 Past from our midst, gone almost in his prime. 
 
 Out of the dawning brightness of the year ! 
 Out of the tumult of a restless time, 
 
 Into the shadows of that Valley drear. 
 Gone ! leaving us on earth alone, to climb 
 
 Up to the cloud-wrapt future. How his ear 
 Heard its far mountain voices thrill and chime, 
 
 Falling through mists in echoes faint yet clear ! 
 
 " Onward and upward !" was his battle-cry : 
 
 Seeking to raise men's bodies with their souls, 
 Nobly this knightly priest of God did try 
 
 Heaven's light to spread. And though all Eng- 
 land tolls 
 As a great bell his death, he will not die, 
 Fadeless his name on ever-living scrolls ! 
 
 6—2
 
 Ig? 
 
 SNOWDROPS, 
 
 Ye rise, oh earliest heralds of the Sprin; 
 
 From your dark graves beneath the snow untrod, 
 And news of the bright resurrection bring 
 
 Of flow'rets resting in the ice-bound sod. 
 Like souls in glistening garments do ye rise, 
 
 From all the dark earth's soils and stains made 
 pure, 
 And downward gaze in pity, spirit-wise, 
 
 Ere ye this world for ever more abjure. 
 Too soon ye leave us, going hence to seek 
 
 The dim and distant cloud-enveloped shore 
 Which surely is your country, blossoms meek ! 
 
 Where, drooping 'neath strong wintry storms no 
 more, 
 We shall behold you in your deathless state 
 Wreathing the portals of the Golden Gate !
 
 LILIES. 
 
 White bells, your soft aerial peals are heard 
 
 Floating upon the summer breeze, by ears 
 Of some, on whom the gift is still conferred 
 
 To hear the hidden music of the years. 
 Sprites, most minute, by them are seen to glide 
 
 Around your slender stalks, to shake the peal 
 Into harmonious motion, and abide 
 
 Resting below, or up the broad leaves steal. 
 And o'er the mountain side your scent is borne 
 
 By warm soft airs of heaven, which blow it in 
 Here at my open casement ; when, if worn 
 
 And tired in mind, with study, or the din 
 Of cares, and thoughts whose echoes shake the soul, 
 It comes like balm, and makes the wounded spirit 
 whole.
 
 PANSIES. 
 
 Rich-blooming Pansies ! oh ! what subtle thought 
 
 Works in a Poet's mind, if he behold, 
 Your tender petals, with bright purple wrought 
 
 In shades blent softly to a crown of gold. 
 For ye are emblems of a peaceful mind 
 
 That rich in its own loveliness lives on 
 Through shower and storm, and sinks not in the 
 blind 
 
 Impatience of a world which seeks to con, 
 With small dim eyes, the motives of the acts 
 
 Of Him who made it ; but like ye, sweet flow'rs, 
 Brighter and fresher for the passing rain, extracts 
 
 Some blessed comfort from its darkest hours. 
 Bloom on, fair representatives of ease of heart. 
 And in the golden Autumn peacefully depart.
 
 WHITBY ABBEY. 
 
 I STOOD at sainted Hilda's sacred shrine, 
 
 Amid the ruinous reHcs of the past, 
 While the near lowing of the browzing kine 
 
 Came borne upon the fresh autumnal blast. 
 The self-same dome of sun-filled azure air 
 
 Above the ruins, as beheld of yore 
 By Oswy's daughter, as she knelt in prayer, 
 
 Or stood alone, to silently adore 
 The great Primeval Artist, who had wrought 
 
 Such glorious works of sea, and cliff, and sky 
 The stately pile twelve centuries have brought 
 
 To utter ruin ; but His work stands high 
 Above all change, strong as in farthest time, 
 Sublimely resting in a golden prime.
 
 THE FADED YEAR. 
 
 Lost to all colour, wrapt in her white shroud, 
 With the gay brightness of her youth forgot, 
 Low winds around, bewailing her sad lot, 
 
 In forest breaking into murmurs loud. 
 
 Worn out with age, the faded year lies cold 
 And dead, upon a couch of frozen snow, 
 Near the wide river which has ceased to flow, 
 
 Beyond the ramparts of the city old. 
 
 Hark! From the stately Minster tower there 
 tolls 
 
 A knell for her, and from the shadowed sky 
 
 Fall tears, transformed to flow'rets ere they lie 
 Upon her pall in starry glitt'ring scrolls. 
 
 Thick mists receive her in a tomb of frost, 
 
 And to all mortal ken the sad old year is lost. 
 
 York.
 
 A DECEMBER SUNSET. 
 
 See the bright forms of angels glorified 
 
 Sustain the weight of the fast sinking sun 
 One moment ; but the next, behold it glide 
 
 From their embrace, falling through vapours dun 
 Into a sea of crimson ; all the blood 
 
 Of unknown martyrs to the pride of man 
 Is there collected, in a purpling flood, 
 
 Uplifted from the earth o'er which it ran, 
 And held aloft, the banner of God^s wrath. 
 
 Confronting the rebellious hosts below, 
 Unfurl'd and waving o'er Destruction's path, 
 
 Splendid and sadd'ning in its ruby glow. 
 Behind a rampart-cloud the sun goes down. 
 And all the darkened sky shows the Eternal's frown.
 
 HEIDELBERG CASTLE. 
 
 Relic of regal pomp once raised in vain ! 
 
 Still standing haughty in thy broken pride 
 'Neath storm, or burning sun, or April rain. 
 
 High and unmoved, above the rushing tide. 
 Thee oft I saw, across the fairy stream 
 
 From woody mountain path, on summer day, 
 Wrapt in blue mist, a dim majestic dream, 
 
 As the bold hero of a deathless lay 
 Saw the enchanted Castle of St. John. 
 
 Thou vanished not, though sunshine streamed 
 around — 
 Loudly the silvern Neckar babbled on. 
 
 And so " the fabric of a dream " was found ! 
 What mists, what memories of war and crime, 
 Wrap thee, amid the sunlight of our time !
 
 POEMS.
 
 UN TROUVERK 
 
 A.D. 1350. 
 
 Long ago in olden times, 
 
 In the sunny land of France, 
 In an age when minstrels' rhymes 
 Mingled with war-chargers' prance 
 Were the sounds of ev'ry day, 
 'Twas a Trouvere sang this lay -, 
 
 " I stand 
 In the land 
 Where my lady dwells so calm ! 
 Ev'ry vineyard, tree, and hill. 
 All my heart doth move and thrill, 
 For each perchance 
 Has felt her glance 
 Fall upon it, soft as balm.
 
 94 Un Tr Oliver e. 
 
 " The rose 
 Fairer blows 
 Here, to please my lady's eye ; 
 Skylarks here more sweetly sing 
 When from dewy nests they spring, 
 Ah ! poor Trouvere ! 
 Who may not dare 
 With them in their art to vie. 
 
 " Ah me ! 
 
 It may be 
 
 She will not vouchsafe her ear 
 
 To her minstrel^s voice and lyre ; 
 
 She who doth my strains inspire, 
 
 Stands so on high, 
 
 My humble sigh 
 
 She, perchance, may never hear ! 
 
 " Yet, no ! 
 Ah ! not so ! 
 Set the bitter thought aside ! 
 May it never prove a truth ! 
 Sure my lady's gentle ruth 
 Will grant one smile, 
 And thus beguile 
 Sorrow into joy and pride.
 
 Un Trotivere. 95 
 
 " On ! on ! 
 There, upon 
 Yonder hill her castle stands ! 
 Higher yet my heart shall beat, 
 Kneeling at my lady's feet ! 
 And, oh ! my lyre ! 
 In notes of fire 
 Speak thou through thy master's hands !" 
 
 Thus he sang, the young Trouvere, 
 
 Passing through a Norman town ; 
 Speeding to the Lady fair 
 
 Who his knightly deeds could crown, 
 In an age when Beauty bright 
 Ruled with undisputed right. 
 
 Answer'd was his humble prayer, 
 Far above his wildest thought, 
 For, upon her bold Trouvere, 
 
 Who for her had sung and fought, 
 Well bestowed that Lady grand, 
 Crown, and heart, and gold and hand !
 
 EVENING AT LLANDUDNO. 
 
 Twilight and sunset mingle o'er the Head, 
 Whose edge is sharply cut against the sky ; 
 While westward, Conway Bay sleeps in a haze 
 Of blue, and grey, and amber ; and above, 
 Where the last touch of sunlight dies. 
 Smothered and stifled, in the azure arms 
 Of the fair August eve, twinkles a star ; 
 One silent lonely star, herald of Night, 
 Rich in a robe of Heaven's shining court. 
 Eastward are lighted windows, and the sea, 
 Beside whose waves parade, a worldly throng, 
 The votaries of Fashion's empty shrine. 
 This is the scene from which I turn to read, 
 Quickly and glad, the letter of a friend.
 
 A SWEDISH LEGEND. 
 
 One holiday, brimful of glee, 
 
 Two children left their father's hall, 
 Ran gaily o'er the sunny lea — 
 
 They heard the babbling river's call. 
 " Come play with me," it seemed to say 
 To those fair lads in accents gay. 
 
 II. 
 
 But now, soft blending with its voice, 
 
 There rose the sound of music sweet, 
 A song whose burden was^ " Rejoice ! 
 Nor dream that joy can ever fleet." 
 
 They gained the bank, and soon espied 
 Glad Necken on the other side. 
 
 7
 
 98 A Swedish Legend. 
 
 III. 
 
 On the blue waves, beneath the shade 
 
 Of waving alder trees, he sat, 
 While water-lilies round him made 
 A pure and whitely dazzling mat. 
 
 His golden air streamed on the breeze 
 His harp poured joyous melodies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Long time entranced the children stood ; 
 
 At last impulsively they spoke : 
 " What profit, Necken, or what good 
 Shall be, that you should joy invoke, 
 In runes so sweet and notes so true ? 
 No happiness can come to you !" 
 
 That speech with sorrow Necken heard ; 
 
 Reminded of his doom, aside 
 He cast his harp, without a word, 
 And sank far down beneath the tide. 
 
 Through bright waves to a brighter spot, 
 W^here stands his pearl-deckt coral grot.
 
 A Swedish Legend, 99 
 
 vi. 
 
 At eve, as fledglings to the nest 
 
 Their homeward way the children took, 
 And told their father how, at rest, 
 They saw fair Necken in the nook 
 Of alders ; of his thoughtless lay, 
 In what despair he sank away. 
 
 Vll. 
 
 The sire rebuked their careless haste. 
 
 And told them they were in the wrong. 
 " Lo ! Necken, too, shall one day taste 
 The joy he spake of in his song — 
 For ne'er is happiness denied 
 To one who seeks it," he replied. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When spirits, who in mid-air wait 
 
 To bid the sinking sun adieu, 
 Next cast round earth a robe of state 
 Composed of clear and pearly dew. 
 With graver pace the brothers took 
 Their way towards the babbling brook. 
 
 7—2
 
 lOO A Swedish Legend. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Alas ! no sound of music sweet 
 
 Came wafted to those longing ears, 
 But in his alder-shaded seat 
 
 Sad Necken sate dissolved in tears. 
 His golden hair dishevelled hung, 
 His silver harp lay all unstrung. 
 
 X. 
 
 So, standing in the sun's last rays, 
 
 The boys cried out, to cheer his mind 
 " O ! weep not, Necken ! father says 
 That you will also one day find 
 A refuge sure from all distress, 
 A deep and lasting happiness." 
 
 XL 
 
 Then Necken wept no more ; but took 
 
 His harp again, and poured afar 
 Enchanting strains, at which the brook 
 Paused, that its murm'ring might not mar 
 One cadence or one rune, that flowed 
 Till morn in rosy chaplets glowed.
 
 TO LISA, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 The promise and the sweetness of the May 
 
 Has spread and warmed and blossomed into 
 
 June, 
 And with the growing of the waxing moon 
 
 Has lengthen'd out the genial summer day. 
 
 And in the early summer of thy life, 
 
 Upon the enchanted meadow-land of youth, 
 Thou standest, culling fairy flowers of truth 
 
 To blossom and refresh thee in the strife. 
 
 Fair glades and avenues appear to lead 
 Across the mystic country, to those hills 
 Which stand far off in Dreamland, where the 
 rills 
 
 Of hope run sparkling o'er the velvet mead.
 
 I02 To Lisa, 07z her Birthday, 
 
 The scene is glamour, and will fade like mist 
 From ofif the mountains, as the sun gets high. 
 For Hope is false ; yet still shall Faith be nigh, 
 
 And with her Joy, though Hope no more exist.
 
 A DAY-DREAM. 
 
 O DREAMY fountain splashing ! 
 
 O garden green and wild ! 
 O shady sunny Springtide ! 
 
 O breezes soft and mild ! 
 O bonnie sunlit mountains ! 
 
 O foaming restless stream ! 
 O clouds that fleck the ether ! 
 
 O silent shapeless dream ! 
 
 Whence comes this mystic feelini 
 
 This thrilling strange delight ! 
 Through all my senses stealing 
 
 With overpowering might ? 
 O distant rolling surges ! 
 
 O Island far away ! 
 My dream in mem'ry merges 
 
 As dawning blends with day.
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Sweet Eve, I hail thee ! come at last 
 
 With spirit-healing calm ! 
 Thy cloak of dew around me cast, 
 
 Thy fingers dropping balm. 
 
 Thoughts of the absent thou dost bring 
 
 But only of the loved ; 
 Thy sacred lyre's one silver string 
 
 Hath ne'er to hatred moved. 
 
 What is the charm, oh silent Queen ! 
 
 That such sweet peace imparts ? 
 Where doth the magnet dwell unseen 
 
 Which draws to thee our hearts ?
 
 IN DER FREMDE. 
 
 The strong winds wrestle, with the trees 
 
 All up the mountain side ; 
 I lose all thought of the inland breeze, 
 And it seems to me 
 The roar of the sea, 
 
 The voice of ocean wide ! 
 
 II. 
 
 It seems the sound that stilled at first 
 
 The infant's fretful cry, 
 That calmed the young soul's fever-thirst- 
 That braced my heart 
 To a stronger part 
 
 Under an alien sky.
 
 I o6 In der Fre7nde. 
 
 III. 
 
 In thought I see the slender mast 
 
 Bend to the heavy gale ; 
 The delicate weeds by the sea upcast, 
 And echoes of waves 
 In Cambrian caves 
 
 Murmur a mystic tale. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The bright sun floods these Dreamland shores 
 
 With beams of summer past, 
 The glist'ning sea-gull sinks and soars, — 
 I hft mine eyes, 
 The vision flies — 
 
 Life's glories fly as fast !
 
 SEHNSUCHT. 
 
 My soul is full of longing, 
 
 Mine eyes are looking West, 
 Towards my native country, 
 
 While sinks the sun to rest. 
 When shall I see that glory 
 
 Glowing above the sea ? 
 When shall I reach the haven 
 
 In which I fain would be ? 
 * * * * if 
 
 From out my German casement 
 
 Mine eyes behold the moon ; 
 She shines above the mountain 
 
 Bright as the sun at noon. 
 Dark clouds are all around her, 
 
 Beyond, a clear blue sky ; 
 Will she reach that, I wonder ? 
 
 And Vvrill the black clouds fly ?
 
 THE BROOK OF LIFE. 
 
 DAYS that babble over stones 
 Which pave the brook of life, 
 
 1 know your low and ceaseless tones 
 A voice with meaning rife. 
 
 I feel ye rushing ever on, 
 
 And bearing me away ; 
 I look the backward view upon, 
 
 In vain, ye will not stay. 
 Sometimes your waters glisten clear, 
 
 With sunlight on each wave ; 
 Sometimes the sky is black with fear, 
 
 And hollow voices rave. 
 Then slow and dim your current creeps 
 
 Along its slimy bed, 
 And from the rugged stony steeps 
 
 Each sunny gleam is fled.
 
 The Brook of Life, 109 
 
 But, creep or rush, still on ye go, 
 
 And bear me on your breast ; 
 Till Time doth rescue me, and so 
 
 I enter into rest.
 
 SEVEN A.M. AT WHITBY IN SEPTEMBER 
 
 Morning shines o'er land and sea, 
 Silver river, cliff, and lea, 
 Yet the sea-fog doth not flee, 
 
 Though the sun 
 Faintly gilds it with his beams, 
 Till the golden glory streams 
 Through it, and the pale mist gleams 
 
 No more dun. 
 
 II. 
 
 Midst it all two forms appear, 
 Still and stately, and austere, 
 Dark, and sombre, and severe, 
 On the cliff:
 
 Seven a.7?z. at Whitby in Septejnber. 1 1 r 
 
 At its ver)^ verge they stand, 
 Ancient church, and Abbey grand : 
 Down where wavelets kiss the land, 
 Rocks a skiff. 
 
 III. 
 
 By the sunbeams freed from mist 
 Is the little vessel kist. 
 Playing round it as they list. 
 
 Mimic waves 
 Tell not of the rough North Sea ; 
 Dreams of storm and shipwreck flee, 
 While around the Sally Lee 
 
 Soft it laves. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Stormy port of olden days ! 
 Village quaint, of rugged ways ! 
 Time a glamour on thee lays, 
 
 All thine own ! 
 Sainted spirits throng around ; 
 In the Abbey's holy ground 
 Some of Hilda's snakes were found 
 
 Turned to stone.
 
 112 Seven a.m. at Whitby in September. 
 
 V. 
 
 Legends wonderful are told 
 '' Of the saintly days of old/' 
 Deeds of seamen wild and bold, 
 
 Too, they tell. 
 I may never see thee more, 
 But remembrance of thy shore 
 Will remain till life is o'er, — 
 
 Fare thee well !
 
 MUSICAL MEMORIES. 
 
 You know not why I love it ; 
 
 You wonder I should ask 
 To have the strain repeated ; 
 
 You jest upon your task : 
 
 " I play, and play for ever, 
 
 This one old opera air ! 
 While you, contented never. 
 
 Sit listening in your chair. 
 
 " I think of Milton's ' Lady,' 
 
 You sit so very still ! 
 Well, I am the enchanter. 
 
 And bind you at my will !" 
 
 But still you play it kindly, 
 You never say me nay, — 
 
 (Ah, friend ! how wondrous blindly 
 We go along our way !) — 
 
 8
 
 114 Musical Memories. 
 
 You play it very finely ; 
 
 Then rise, with merry jest, 
 Unknowing of the mem'ries 
 
 Awaken'd in my breast. 
 
 You. who so truly love me, 
 
 Guess not those chords have power 
 
 To raise, by music's magic, 
 The ghost of one glad hour. 
 
 Ever while you are playing 
 
 My form sits tranced, 'tis true — 
 
 My spirit back goes straying 
 'Mid scenes you never knew !
 
 AN OLD ENVELOPE. 
 
 Long ago these words were written 
 In the misty vale of years 
 
 That fair day has paled and vanisht, 
 And my heart is full of tears. 
 
 Yet I have a sunny vision 
 Of a brilliant summer day, 
 
 Of a blue and cloudless ether, 
 And a joyous child at play. 
 
 How it comes that this poor trifle, 
 Speaking from that distant day, 
 
 Undestroyed still remaineth, 
 Know I not, it cannot say ! 
 
 But I know it hath a magic 
 To recall bright days of yore, 
 
 Till I almost smell the woodbine 
 Waving at our cottage door.
 
 ii6 An Old Envelope. 
 
 And the free firm writing waketh 
 Thoughts which slumbered long ago, 
 
 Pushed aside amid the tumult 
 Of a life of care and woe. 
 
 Is the hand long cold that traced it ? 
 
 Or, a worker among men, 
 With a steadfast, sobered spirit, 
 
 Lives the one who held the pen ? 
 
 All is dim ; — perhaps hereafter 
 I shall meet that friend again, 
 
 And recall my happy childhood, 
 In the sunshine after rain.
 
 IN THE FIRELIGHT. 
 
 Three sat round a cheerful fire — 
 
 Three still forms with souls afar ; 
 One, who burnt with high desire, 
 One who watched the evening star, 
 One, whose fixt unerring gaze 
 Never left the merry blaze. 
 
 Voices had the soul of each, 
 
 Heard not by the other two ; 
 Words came none — what use in speech 
 Where no thought found echo true ? 
 Lone, each of that musing three, 
 As on desert plains were he. 
 
 High the dreams of one, I wot. 
 Soaring in the Future's sky; 
 Work to do, fame to be got, 
 
 Bright the sunlit clouds sailed by ! 
 Echoes floated down to him 
 From far glaciers high and dim,
 
 1 8 In the Firelight. 
 
 Venus glistens in the sky ; 
 
 One within that antique hall 
 Gazes through the windows high, 
 While the shadows darker fall : 
 Bright the firelight, yet, above, 
 Brighter beams the light of Love. 
 
 Wide apart the two young souls. 
 Yet elate with hope was each ; 
 Eyes gazed on the glowing coals. 
 Speaking in their spirit-speech 
 Things of which the other twain 
 Knew not yet the weary pain. 
 
 So these spirits wandered free 
 
 Till the evening lamps were brought. 
 Rousing all the musers three 
 
 From the misty realms of thought. 
 Calmly spake then each to each, 
 Laught, and held light jesting speech. 
 
 Ever thus our lives do flow, 
 
 All unknown their subtle deeps ; 
 One in joy and one in woe. 
 Never one but silent keeps 
 Memory, or hope, or dream. 
 Hidden from the daylight's beam.
 
 SPIRITUAL FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " You tell of two who never spoke ! 
 
 And how could such be ' friends'?" 
 I answered, " I do not revoke 
 
 The word which so offends." 
 
 Yea ! " friends." Although they never spake, 
 Nor ever once clasped hands — 
 
 It is not outward signs which make 
 Two spirits' inward bands. 
 
 A magnet influence drew them near 
 
 In public place or walk ; 
 And each these meetings held as dear 
 
 As others worded talk. 
 
 I cannot fathom deep enough 
 
 The mysteries of the soul — 
 Our human guesses are but rough — 
 
 To comprehend the whole.
 
 120 Spiritual Friendship. 
 
 Yet so it was (as I have heard) 
 These two met day by day ; 
 
 Unbroken by an uttered word 
 The spell upon them lay. 
 
 Both strangers in a foreign land, 
 They knew a time must be 
 
 When one would linger on the strand, 
 And one sail o'er the sea. 
 
 And truly soon, one sought in vain, 
 Then went his lonely way, 
 
 To tropic lands ; and ne'er again 
 Their paths together lay. 
 
 But when each life was near its end. 
 It chanced that either told 
 
 To me (who proved a mutual friend) 
 This episode of old. 
 
 The days between their deaths were few 
 Perchance, though stunted here. 
 
 That friendship to perfection grew 
 In some eternal sphere.
 
 A NOVEMBER MORNING. 
 
 Open I throw my casement ! 
 
 And the glory of the hour 
 Lightens my lonely spirit 
 
 Where the clouds of night still lour. 
 
 Morning here shines in splendour 
 Over lofty mountain lands ; 
 
 Lo ! the green Angel's Meadow- 
 Silent, calm and wide expands. 
 
 Westward, above the river, 
 Arches soft a rainbow high ; 
 
 Brighter than earthly gardens 
 Bloom the flow'r-beds of the sky. 
 Heidelberg,
 
 CONWAY BAY. 
 
 Often in the silent gloaming 
 Dream I that I still am roaming 
 Where the mimic waves do glisten 
 On the sands of Conway Bay. 
 
 Midst the noise of London, falling 
 Oft I hear their echoes calling ; 
 And I needs must pause and listen 
 To the sweet familiar lay, 
 
 Till the mountains seem around me ; 
 As when summer sunsets found me 
 Dreaming there of lands enchanted, 
 Doubting if the scene were true ; 
 
 While in flames the sun sank burning. 
 Clouds and sea to crimson turning, 
 O'er the waves its red light slanted 
 In among the mountains blue.
 
 Conway Bay, 123 
 
 On the nearer hills lay blended 
 E'vry hue ; far off they ended 
 In a deep and dusky blueness, 
 Melting into twilight gray. 
 
 On those sands I aye did linger 
 Till the Night with chilling finger 
 Dimmed the scene, but showed its trueness 
 While she stole its tints away.
 
 LILIES IN LONDON. 
 
 The London streets are blazing 
 In the summer noon-tide heat ; 
 
 Along a dusty pavement 
 I haste on with weary feet. 
 
 whence this sudden fragrance 
 That perfumes the summer air, 
 
 And wafts a breath from Eden 
 O'er the desert of despair ? 
 
 A basketful of lilies 
 
 Flashes white in pure sunbeams ! 
 They gleam like angels' garments 
 
 In the glory of our dreams. 
 
 1 pause ; their spell of sweetness 
 
 Can delay my hasty tread, 
 For mem'ries of departed 
 
 Happy days, ah ! long since dead !
 
 Lilies in London, 125 
 
 Come with the scent famih'ar, 
 
 And amid this busy scene 
 The ghost stands sad beside me 
 
 Of a joy which might have been. 
 
 O lilies ! fresh as ever 
 
 Ye return, each rolling year, 
 And bloom in dewy whiteness 
 
 As the snow in winter drear. 
 
 The years have lost their freshness, 
 
 And alas ! no more can beam 
 The lilies of one summer 
 
 To enwreathe a sunny dream.
 
 TO xMY MOTHER. 
 
 Seated here, in quaint old Bruges, 
 While the rain is falling, falling, 
 And the lofty trees are calling 
 
 One to other, with the voices 
 Of the leaves this stormy weather 
 Rustles, as they cling together, 
 
 Round the brown and mighty branches, 
 
 I bethink me of the verses 
 Due the day we cross the ocean ; 
 When amid the wild commotion 
 
 Of that early morning journey 
 There will be no time for rhyming, 
 Nor to listen to the chiming 
 
 Of the carillon of Bruges. 
 
 Yet those bells of mighty metal 
 Will chime sweetly on the morning 
 Of thy birthday, it adorning
 
 To my Mother. 127 
 
 With their strange and stately music. 
 This their message : " Blessing ! Blessing ! 
 Health and peace and love possessing, 
 
 Joy be thine in every season." 
 
 October 13, 1885.
 
 THE GERMAN EXILE BARD'S LAMENT. 
 
 Past is all my happy dreaming 
 
 By the rushing river's side, 
 Past the hopes that once were gleaming 
 O'er the Neckar's silvern tide — 
 Past and gone 
 With summer's pride ! 
 
 Dark and dreary is the prospect ! 
 Blossoms gay, nor cooing dove, 
 Nought ! to soothe my weary spirit 
 Till I gain sweet rest above — 
 In the land 
 Of peace and love ! 
 
 Always carking care and sadness, 
 Trivial wants, and trivial woes. 
 Goading the worn soul to madness ; 
 Scoffings from soft-smiling foes — 
 In this world 
 Is no repose !
 
 The German Exile Bard's Lament. 
 
 Looking for a light that comes not, 
 
 Seeking to disperse the clouds, 
 Groping dimly in the darkness 
 
 While a mist my pathway shrouds — 
 All alone 
 Amid the crowds. 
 
 Ach ! alone ! — yes ! oft I feel so, 
 
 Mid the rough and busy throng ; 
 Or when praises cold and absent 
 Meet my sunny bursts of song — 
 Hope is brief, 
 But life is long ! 
 
 Lebewohl ! ach ! home of childhood ! 
 
 Fatherland ! adieu for aye ! 
 Never more beside the Neckar 
 Shall I in the sunshine stray, 
 Nor at eve 
 My zither play ! 
 
 Land of dreams ! thy pearly portals 
 Gleam more faintly on my sight, 
 Fading in the glare of noontide, 
 Blending with the common light- 
 Shadow joys 
 Take hence their flight. 
 9
 
 THE ROAMING SOULS. 
 
 Wild waves dashing with a weary motion 
 (Far away from Albion's snowy cliffs), 
 
 Dream-boats drifting on a m oonlit ocean, 
 Ghostly figures standing in the skiffs. 
 
 Two fair forms amid the silence greeting, 
 Sadly, sweetly, as two spirits may_, 
 
 Knowing noontide ne'er could bring their meetin; 
 While those spirits still were wrapt in clay. 
 
 " Soul ! sweet soul ! ah ! whither art thou drifting, 
 In thy dream-boat o'er this phantom sea ? 
 
 Round thy barque the mirrored moonbeams 
 shifting 
 Seem a pathway leading me to thee !"
 
 The Roaming Souls. 131 
 
 "Whither, friend ? O see'st thou not up-lifted, 
 Far away, the Standard of the Sky ? 
 
 When my dream-boat under that hath drifted, 
 Safe in harbour shall it ever lie." 
 
 " 'Tis the Cross ! on which mine eyes gaze nightly, 
 When the sun sets o'er this southern strand; 
 
 If to-night it seem to shine more brightly, 
 Twas to guide thee to my far-off land ! 
 
 " Here is welcome, from long years of exile, 
 To the heart whose dreams are all of thee ! 
 
 Stay thy barque, then, till the morning sun smile !• 
 Drift no more upon a lonely sea !" 
 
 " Nay, dear Soul ! a dream can linger never ! 
 
 Long ere morn my barque must fade away, 
 Leave thee lonely by these waters ever, 
 
 Till the sunlight of eternal Day." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Elliot stock, Paternoster- Ro2u, Loudon.
 
 >>
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 ■ Miss Dixon's mediaeval story is very well related. The writer 
 possesses a decided power of clear and often spirited narration.' 
 
 — AthencEum. 
 
 ' The authoress has laid hold of a powerful story, which she tells in 
 equally powerful poetic language. The other poems and sonnets testify 
 to the poetic genius of the writer.' — Liverpool Daily Albion, 
 
 ' ' The Chimney-piece of Bruges ' is a touching tale told in good blank 
 verse. . . . This scene is finely worked out.' — Literary World. 
 
 'Miss Constance E. Dixon shows that she can write blank verse in 'The 
 Chimney-piece of Bruges ' . . . Such pieces as ' Lilies in London ' have, 
 in a way, distinction. The German translations show unmistakable 
 faculty. . . . The sonnets, especially that on Charles Kinsley, are happy. 
 'The German Exile Bard's Lament,' and 'The Roaming Souls,' show 
 force, and are touching.' — Nonconformist. 
 
 'The tale is well told and the verse is easy.' — Morning Post.
 
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