ence 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
below,
Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow:
Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and
bold,
As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows
cold.
He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck
loud in the ears,
He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded
with tears;
But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence
profound,
He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.

When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his
brain,
One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not
restrain--
'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted
dells,
And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical
bells.
They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have
faded so fast
With the music of memory wing`ed, they will seem but the voice of the
past;
As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and
dark,
The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the
lark.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea,
In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee;
And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way,
And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray.
He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly
prays,
For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom
plays;
He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll,
But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to
his soul.

For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of
Rome,
Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of
home.
So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray,
'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay:
He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits