Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare,
That told of patient toil and reverent care;
Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears
Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears,
And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow
In summer, where the silver rivers flow;
And demon-heads grotesque, that seem'd to glare
In impotent wrath on all the beauty there,
Then the gold rays up pillar'd shaft would climb,
And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time.
And deeper silence, darker shadows flow'd
On all around, only the windows glow'd
With blazon'd glory, like the shields of light
Archangels bear, who, arm'd with love and might,
Watch upon heaven's battlements at night.
Then all was shade, the silver lamps that gleam'd,
Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seem'd
Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine,
Or trembling stars before each separate shrine.
Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there,
And come out, blinded by the noisy glare
That burst upon him from the busy square.
The church was thus his home for rest or play;
And as he came and went again each day,
The pictured faces that he knew so well,
Seem'd to smile on him welcome and farewell.
But holier, and dearer far than all,
One sacred spot his own he loved to call;
Save at mid-day, half-hidden by the gloom,
The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb:
For there she stands; her folded hands are press'd
Together, and laid softly on her breast;
As if she waited but a word to rise
From the dull earth, and pass to the blue skies;
Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath,
As listening for the angel voice of death.
None know how many years have seen her so,
Or what the name of her who sleeps below.
And here the child would come, and strive to trace,
Through the dim twilight, the pure gentle face,
He loved so well, and here he oft would bring
Some violet blossom of the early spring;
And climbing softly by the fretted stand,
Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand;
Or whispering a soft loving message, sweet,
Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet.
So, when the organ's pealing music rang,
He thought amid the gloom the maiden sang;
With reverent simple faith by her he knelt,
And listen'd what she thought, and what she felt;
"Glory to God," re-echoed from her voice,
And then his little spirit would rejoice;
Or when the Requiem sobb'd upon the air,
His baby-tears dropp'd with her mournful prayer.

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

  The old man died, and years pass'd on, and still
The young musician bent his heart and will,
To his dear toil. St. Bavon now had thrown
More dear to him, and even more his own;
And as he left it every night he pray'd
A moment by the archway in the shade,
Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom
Where the White Maiden watch'd upon her tomb.
His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame,
Cold Time had sober'd, and his fragile frame;
Content at last only in dreams to roam,
Away from the tranquillity of home;
Content that the poor dwellers by his side
Saw in him but the gentle friend and guide,
The patient counsellor in the poor strife
And petty details of their common life,
Who comforted where woe and grief might fall,
Nor slighted any pain or want as small,
But whose great heart took in and felt for all.
Still he grew famous, many came to be
His pupils in the art of harmony.
One day a voice floated so pure and free
Above his music, that he turn'd to see
What angel sang, and saw before his eyes,
What made his heart leap with a strange surprise,
His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild,
As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled,
Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart,
And music overflowing from her heart.
But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betray'd
No marble statue, but a living maid:
Perplex'd and startled at his wondering look,
Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook;
The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare,
Flutter'd and died upon the trembling air.

  Days pass'd, each morning saw the maiden stand,
Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand,
Eager to study, never weary, while
Repaid by the approving word or smile
Of her kind master; days and months fled on;
One day the pupil from the choir was gone;
Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more,
Within the poor musician's humble door;
And to repay, with gentle happy art,
The debt so many owed his generous heart.
And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt
That a great gift of God within him dwelt;
One who could listen, who could understand,
Whose idle work dropp'd from her slacken'd hand,
While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew
How the melodious winged hours flew;
Who loved his art as none had loved before,
Yet prized the noble tender spirit more.
While the great organ brought from far and near
Lovers of harmony to praise and hear.
Unmark'd by aught save what fill'd every day,
Duty, and toil, and rest, years pass'd away:
And now by the low archway in the shade
Beside her mother knelt a little maid,
Who, through the great cathedral learn'd to roam,
Climb to the choir and 'bring her father home ;
And stand, demure and solemn by his side,
Patient till the last echo softly died,
Then place her little hand in his, and go
Down the dark winding stair to where below
The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom,
Waiting and praying by the maiden's tomb.

  So their life went, until one winter's day.
Father and child came there alone to pray,
The mother, gentle soul, had fled away.
Their life was alter'd now, and yet the child
Forgot her passionate grief in time, and smiled,
Half-wondering why, when spring's fresh breezes came,