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,Seemed 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 pressed 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 fancied 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 sobbed upon the air,His baby tears dropped 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 touched 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 passed 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 hushed murmur at the wondrous art Of him,who with young trembling fingers made The great church-organ answer as he played;And,as the uncertain sound grew full and strong,Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along,And thrill with master-power the breathless throng.
The old man died,and years passed on,and still The young musician bent his heart and will To his dear toil.St.Bavon now had grown More dear to him,and even more his own;And as he left it every night he prayed A moment by the archway in the shade,Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom Where the White Maiden watched upon her tomb.His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame,Cold Time had sobered,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 turned 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 betrayed No marble statue,but a living maid;Perplexed and startled at his wondering look,Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook;The uncertain notes,like birds within a snare,Fluttered and died upon the trembling air.
