Incident At Bruges

In Bruges town is many a street Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet The grass-grown pavement tread. There heard we, halting in the shade Flung from a Convent-tower, A harp that tuneful prelude made To a voice of thrilling power. The measure, simple truth to tell, Was fit for some gay throng; Though from the same grim turret fell The shadow and the song. When silent were both voice and chords, The strain seemed doubly dear, Yet sad as sweet, for 'English' words Had fallen upon the ear. It was a breezy hour of eve; And pinnacle and spire Quivered and seemed almost to heave, Clothed with innocuous fire; But, where we stood, the setting sun Showed little of his state; And, if the glory reached the Nun, 'Twas through an iron grate. Not always is the heart unwise, Nor pity idly born, If even a passing Stranger sighs For them who do not mourn. Sad is thy doom, self-solaced dove, Captive, whoe'er thou be! Oh! what is beauty, what is love, And opening life to thee? Such feeling pressed upon my soul, A feeling sanctified By one soft trickling tear that stole From the Maiden at my side; Less tribute could she pay than this, Borne gaily o'er the sea, Fresh from the beauty and the bliss Of English liberty?