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Gleaming on purple grapes, that, from branches

above them suspended, Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of

the pine and the fir-tree, Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the

valley of Eshcol. Like a picture it seemed of the primitive, pastoral

ages, Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling

Rebecca and Isaac, Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful

always, Love immortal and young in the endless succes

sion of lovers. So through the Plymouth woods passed onward

the bridal procession.


In the ancient town of Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city, As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges. Then, with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwellings; Of that quaint old Flemish city. All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city,

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