In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the
splendour of dreams,
Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams,
'Neath those hills whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages
long since,
For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince,
Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro, the pride of his own little vale--
Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale;
Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing
and sweet,
And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his
feet.
Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills,
Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.
Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys,
Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that
destroys,
Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain;
Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain;
Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath:
Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!
But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,
Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or
pen,
Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,
Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and
wife,
Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,
And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of
kings;
He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race,
Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the
face.
And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had
gone,
To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on.
In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star
burned,
And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary
returned.
One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the
stream,
Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's
beam;
For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that
casement shines
In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis
of vines.
Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is
fair,
Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy
wind-woven hair;
'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow,
That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart
below.
Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce,
A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with
use.
One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and
taints:
One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.
Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes
would start,
For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of
his heart;
He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and
morn,
And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born.
There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens
are there,
And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly
fair;
And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings
gleam,
But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's
sweet stream?
It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear,
That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's
ear,
Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight,
Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of
the night.
But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was
thine,
To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the
kine,
And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender
yearly increase,
That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in
peace.
Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days,
Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful
ways;
Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness
and noise,
Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys.
Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning
noon,
Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of
June,
Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving
wing,
Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms
of spring.
The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines,
Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines;
The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the
air,
And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of
prayer.
At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door,
At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more;
And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will
be done,"
While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.
