t delicious sensation with which the young mother is
blest,
As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her
breast.

From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had
unroll'd
O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and
gold:
It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures
near,
But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's
ear.
At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing
grass--
At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass.
If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were
dumb,
He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had
come.

At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes,
Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes.
Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head,
And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said,
Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away
From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil
of day,
From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high,
When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from
the sky.

And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at
eve,
The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness
weave,
They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive,
As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a
hive.
They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the
flower--
They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with
the shower.
As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or
fast,
And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows
are cast.

Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from
pain,
The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical
strain.
Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side,
As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young
bride.
'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart
bleed anew,
When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny
slew;
But the tower i