THE LACE-MAKER OF BRUGES

Her age-worn hands upon her apron lie

Idle and still. Against the sunset glow

Tall poplars stand, and silent barges go

Along the green canal that wanders by.

A lean, red finger pointing to the sky,

The spire of Notre Dame. Above a row

Of dim, gray arches where the sunbeams die,

The ancient belfry guards the square below.

One August eve she stood in that same square

And gazed and listened, proud beneath her tears,

To see her soldier passing down the street.

To-night the beat of drums and trumpets’ blare

With bursts of fiendish music smite her ears,

And mingle with the tread of trampling feet.