The Bell-Founder.

A poem by Denis Florence MacCarthy

PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE.

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[1] 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,[2] 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.


PART II.--TRIUMPH AND REWARD.

In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with gold,
As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould;
Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape,
And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling shape;
To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves,
And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard reproves;
And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up swells,
For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the bells.

Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry smiled,
And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of a child;
Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped lightly around,
And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter sound.
At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press,
Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress;
And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and calm,
And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed balm.

But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows;
And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose:
And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so prospered and blest,
The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest;
But Paolo 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.[3]
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.[4]

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 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 hope passed away from the heart once so burning and bold,
As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold.
He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck loud in the 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.

When he felt 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 its magical bells.
They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have faded so fast
With the music of memory wing`ed, 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.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea,
In the shrine of Loreto, 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.

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 Baiae, 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.

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,[5]
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.

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!

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!