Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

134
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