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. Days passed; each morning saw the maiden stand, Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand, Eager to study, never weary, while Repaid by the approving word or smile Of her kind master; days and months fled on; One day the pupil from the choir was gone; Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more, Within the poor musician's humble door; And to repay, with gentle happy art, The debt so many owed his generous heart. And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt That a great gift of God within him dwelt; One who could listen, who could understand, Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand, While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew How the melodious winged hours flew; Who loved his art as none had loved before, Yet prized the noble tender spirit more. While the great organ brought from far and near Lovers of harmony to praise and hear, Unmarked by aught save what filled every day, Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away: And now by the low archway in the shade Beside her mother knelt a little maid, Who, through the great cathedral learned to roam, Climb to the choir, and bring her father home; And stand, demure and solemn by his side, Patient till the last echo softly died; Then place her little hand in his, and go Down the dark winding stair to where below The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom Waiting and praying by the Maiden's Tomb.