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 li