Poems - Denis Florence MacCarthy (good books to read .txt) 📗

is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign- Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the
dead, From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff
overhead.

'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their
sledge-hammers wield, That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells
are revealed; The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks
of the steers, And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings
and tears. By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees
fringing the plain, By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival
train; And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on
the gale, As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the
vale.

Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies
smile, Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the
aisle, Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour
up-floats, And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous
notes. In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round
about, And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside
and out; They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the
choristers sing, And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall
ring.

Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden
song; Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of
strife, But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells- Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells- Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the
sound.

But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair
evening star, And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from
afar- Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is
blest, As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her
breast.

From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had
unroll'd O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and
gold: It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures
near, But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's
ear. At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing
grass- At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were
dumb, He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had
come.

At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil
of day, From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from
the sky.

And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at
eve, The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness
weave, They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a
hive. They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the
flower- They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with
the shower. As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or
fast, And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows
are cast.

Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from
pain, The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical
strain. Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young
bride. 'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart
bleed anew, When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny
slew; But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope
and of love,- There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry
above.

Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care? Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day (So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests
away? Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the
end. Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river
must be, Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright
summer sea!


PART III.-VICISSITUDE AND REST.

O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley-thou well-watered land of fresh
streams, When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such
loveliness beams, When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams
disembogue, Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright
Tir-na-n-oge.[96] But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen
with years, I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of
peace, And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever
increase.[97]

O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth
its throne- O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the
more, From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful
shore? For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of
thine, And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice
of the vine. Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen
who guide, Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide.

Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its
sheath; Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the
wreath; Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of
eternity's years, And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his
ears. For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking
lust: He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially,
stray- They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the
frail cottage away.

Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and
within; Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the
din; Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the
gale; And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of
the vine.

Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the
grain. But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest
and best, And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?-what ruin and wrong
have been done? What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair!

Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are
removed, Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?- And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form
this spot? And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd
cot? 'Tis morning-no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; 'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door
flown? And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone?

His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of
the fight; Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the
gloom, And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the
tomb, That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of
flowers, That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the
fast-flying hours, Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells
have been torn From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege
borne.

As the smith, in