  The chimes that oft from old Malines, Rang out their sacred strain, At morning, noon and eventide, Shall never ring again; That voice that called the living, Or sadly mourned the dead, Is still and silent now for aye: The soul of Flanders’ fled. The peasant at his daily toil, Shall listen now in vain, From early morn till evening, To hear those chimes again; But never shall such silver sounds By harmony inbred, Fall on his ever listening ears; The soul of Flanders’ fled. Those lovely chimes, which e’er were wont To sound with morn’s first beams, And ’wake the tourist from his sleep, Will haunt his waking dreams; But never more those dulcet sounds Will rouse him from his bed, And fill his soul with ecstasy: The soul of Flanders’ fled. ’Tis strangely sad such chimes as those, Which seemed a heavenly dow’r, Should fall a prey to tyranny, And war’s barbaric pow’r, A city new will rise again Up from its ashen bed, But those old chimes shall ring no more: The soul of Flanders’ fled. |
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