But deeming it no more, alas

Than the hollow sound of bra

Yet perchance a sleepless wig Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of nig Shut out the incessant din

Of daylight and its toil and strif May listen with a calm delight To the poet's melodies,

Till he hears, or dreams he hea Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished Hears amid the chime and singin The bells of his own village ring And wakes, and finds his slumber Wet with most delicious tears.

;

yes

Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Blé,

Listening with a wild delight

To the chimes that, through the night,
Rang their changes from the Belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.

THE BELFRY OF BRUGES.