Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

141
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