Classic Poem

PART III.

Vicissitude and Rest.

I.

O E RIN ! 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.
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 to thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.

II.

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 said claimant the more,
From the sweet sunny land of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful shore?
For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a currach 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.

III.

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.

IV.

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 now that the bells ever ring?
Or is it the red trickling must 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.

V.

Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept ore that vinecover'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!

VI.

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 from 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?

VII.

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 down-fallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege borne.

VIII.

As the smith, in the dark sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil below,
Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow,
Wife, children, and home passed away from that heart once so burning and bold,
As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold.
He missed not the voice of his bells while those death sounds struck loud in his ears,
He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded with tears,
But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence profound,
He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.

IX.

When he felt that indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his brain,
One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not restrain—
'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted dells,
And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of his magical bells.
They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have faded so fast,
Wing'd with the music of memory, they will seem but the voice of the past;
As when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and dark,
The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the lark

X.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy—now by the Adrian sea,
In the shrine of Loretto, he bendeth his travel-tired, suppliant knee;
And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way,
And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray.
He prays for the dear ones snatched from him—nor vainly nor hopelessly prays,
For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom plays;
He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll,
But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to his soul.

XI.

For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of Rome,
Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of home
So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray,
'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay:
He sees not the blue waves of Baiæ, nor Ischia's summits of brown—
He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town.
Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain,
And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

XII.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream;
Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream.
'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air,
As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare;
The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as still
As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairy hill,
To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide,
And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark vessel's side.

XIII.

Borne on the current, the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away,
By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,
'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores of Tervoe,
And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;
Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town,
The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlements brown.
He listens—as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,
A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies!

XIV.

One note is enough—his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells,
He has found them—the sons of his labours—his musical, magical bells!
At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines,
His children—his darling Francesca—his purple-clad trellis of vines!
Leaning forward, he listens—he gazes—he hears in that wonderful strain
The long-silent voices that murmur, “Oh, leave us not, father, again!”
'Tis granted—he smiles—his eye closes—the breath from his white lips hath fled—
The father has gone to his children—the old Campanaro is dead!