Classic Poem

In fair and sunny Italy, beneath its heavenly sky,
A young and stately Artisan on a mossy bank doth lie;
A light spreads o'er his features, and his darkly flashing eye —
Is it because his lovely wife and children all are nigh?

No — no — but on his ear there falls, from a neighboring convent tower,
The pleasant chime of vesper bells, that proclaim the evening hour;
And every morn, and every eve, for years it was his pride
To listen to the blending of their tones at eventide.
For they were of his handicraft — his ears first heard the tone
That had become a part of him as those happy years had flown;
Each note had been a joy to him, to other hearts unknown,
He would not exchange their music for the honors of a Throne.

But lo! the brand of civil war is flaming o'er the land —
He sees his treasures borne away by the marauder's hand;
And though old and silver-headed now, he leaves Italia's plain,
And deigns to tread the wide world o'er to hear their sounds again.

Upon St. Mary's turret
An old man keeps his eye,
For there his long-lost idols,
His earthly treasures lie;
The boat moves on serenely,
The happy shore is nigh,
Bathed in the softening radiance
Of a summer evening sky.

The old man sits reflecting,
Perchance on happier times,
When from the Italian convent
First pealed those silvery chimes
That on his ear, incessantly,
From youth to age did fall,
Soothing his ravished senses
With their heaven-ascending call,

For years he had not heard them,
For years he had not known —
Save in his secret memory —
Their sweetly sounding tone;
For in a foreign country,
While he had weary grown,
Strange ears drank in the melody
That once was all his own.

And now the aged wanderer
Nears the desired shore,
Fain would be clasp his treasures,
Fain hear their peals once more,
When, lo! as if to welcome him,
Each with the other vied;
He heard their silvery voices,
He heard their tones — and died!