d (or Benmore) in two.

THE BELL-FOUNDER.

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[94] 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,[95] 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