Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

133
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