Wouldst thou behold, not the ensnaring blaze
Of earthly grandeur in its envious noon,
But the calm majesty of other days
Reposing, as beneath the summer moon
Rests the laid Ocean; hie thee to the streets
Of ancient Bruges:--temple, dome, and tower,
Or pathside dwelling,--whatsoever meets
Thy roving sight, bears record of a power
Long since departed: surely not so fair
When pomp and pride were tenants here, as now,
When solitary forms, with pious care,
Or thankful haply for some granted vow,
Stately and dark these vistas churchward tread,
Fit habitants for her whose fame is with the dead.