On St. Bavon's tower, commanding
Half of Flanders, his domain,
Charles the Emperor once was standing,
While beneath him on the landing
Stood Duke Alva and his train.

Like a print in books of fables,
Or a model made for show,
With its pointed roofs and gables,
Dormer windows, scrolls and labels,
Lay the city far below.

Through its squares and streets and alleys
Poured the populace of Ghent;
As a routed army rallies,
Or as rivers run through valleys,
Hurrying to their homes they went.

“Nest of Lutheran misbelievers!”

“The truest wisdom's ever of the heart:
The generous impulse finds the way all plain.”
Then life mistook in wasting such rare art
Through age-long building of the wondrous brain.

I FOUND a pine that shot its solemn bole
Twice fifty feet against the summer sky
From out a sunless gorge; and sad of soul
It seemed, until I sought to question why;
Whereat the tree moaned darkly—made this strange reply:

“I am troubled betimes, I am sad in my sleep,
Foreboding the day I shall stagger and leap
And tremble through tempests o'er seas that are deep.

“They will fashion me forth for a ship; they will make
My stature and girth but a mock; they will break
My branches and rend me for merchanting's sake.

The dusky warriors stood in groups around the funeral pyre;
The scowl upon their knotted brows betrayed their vengeful ire.
It needed not the cords, the stake, the rites so stern and rude,
To tell it was to be a scene of cruelty and blood. . . .

O lovely was that winsome child of a dark and rugged line,
And e'en 'mid Europe's daughters fair surpassing might she shine:
For ne'er had coral lips been wreathed by brighter, sunnier smile,
Or dark eyes beamed with lustrous light more full of winsome wile. . . .

Ye sons of Athens, grant me one request,
And I'll requite you with a pleasing jest.
Protect me from my Master's cruel rod;
Hide me, O hide me, from the tyrant's nod!
He penned a prologue which to me was shown;
I liked it not, and told him 'twould not down.
He said it humor had, and wit enough,
But to my thinking it was scurvy stuff;
Howe'er, he made me get it all by heart,
And thus instructed my to play the part:

“Dear Tommy, child, repeat the whole with care;
Here you must raise your voice, but sink it there.

No more auction block for me,
No more, no more;
No more auction block for me,
Many thousand gone.

No more peck o' corn for me,
No more, no more;
No more peck o' corn for me,
Many thousand gone.

No more driver's lash for me,
No more, no more;
No more driver's lash for me,
Many thousand gone.

No more pint o' salt for me,
No more, no more;
No more pint o' salt for me,
Many thousand gone.

No more hundred lash for me,
No more, no more;
No more hundred lash for me,
Many thousand gone.

No more mistress' call for me,

Oh! lift the hand, and Peace shall bear
Her olive where the palm-tree grows;
And torrid Afric's desert share,
The fragrance of salvation's rose.

But if with Pilate's stoic eye,
You calmly wash when blood is spilt;
Or deem a cold unpitying sigh,
Absolves you from the stain of guilt;

Or if like Jacob's recreant train,
Who traffick'd in a brother's woe,
You hear the suppliant plead in vain,
Or mock his tears that wildly flow;

Will not the judgments of the skies,
Which threw a shield 'round Joseph sold,

“Far be the dull and heavy day
“And toil, and restless care, from me—
“Sorrow attends on loads of gold,
“And kings are wretched, I am told.
“Soon from the noisy town removed
“To such wild scenes as Plato lov'd,
“Where, placed the leafless oaks between,
“Less haughty grows the wintergreen,
“There, Night, will I (lock'd in thy arms,
“Sweet goddess of the sable charms)
“Enjoy the dear, delightful dreams
“That fancy prompts by shallow streams,
“Where wood nymphs walk their evening round,
“And fairies haunt the moonlight ground.

O thou, or friend or stranger, who shalt trend
These solemn mansions of the silent dead!
Think, when this record to inquiring eyes,
No more shall tell the spot where Dicey lies;
When this frail marble, faithless to its trust,
Mould'ring itself, resigns its moulder'd dust;
When time shall fail, and nature's self decay,
And earth, and sun, and skies dissolve away;
Thy soul this consummation shall survive,
Defy the wreck, and but begin to live.
This truth, long slighted, let these ashes teach,
Though cold, instruct you, and though silent preach:

That her destroying fury was with noise
And sudden uproar; but far otherwise,
With silent and with secret ministries,
Her skill of renovation she employs:
For Nature, only loud when she destroys,
Is silent when she fashions: she will crowd
The work of her destruction, transient, loud,
Into an hour, and then long peace enjoys.
Yea, every power that fashions and upholds
Works silently—all things, whose life is sure,
Their life is calm; silent the light that moulds
And colors all things; and without debate
The stars, which are for ever to endure,