With rosy shame on downcast cheeks. From all his wild companions flown; The happy wild-flowers court him! Sweet Hope-and tender Longing-ye The growth of Life's first age of Gold; When the heart, swelling, seems to see The gates of heaven unfold; Oh, were it ever green! Oh, stay, Linger, young Love, Life's blooming May! IV. Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering, If like glass the wand be glimmering, Brisk, brisk now, and see If the fusion flow free: If happy and welcome indeed were the sign!) For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak, So heed, oh, heed well, ere for ever united, That the heart to the heart flow in one, love-delighted; Illusion is brief, but Repentance is long! Lovely, thither are they bringing, With her virgin wreath, the Bride! With that sweetest holiday, Must the May of Life depart; With struggle and strife, To snare or to snatch, To pray and importune, Must wager and venture And hunt down his fortune! Then flows in a current the gear and the gain, And the garners are filled with the gold of the grain, Now a yard to the court, now a wing to the centre ! Within sits Another, The thrifty Housewife; In its circle she rules, And the daughters she schools, And a diligent hand Employ'd she employs; And the much makes the more; Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smelling; The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool, From his roof he sees them smile), And the laden storehouse are, And the granaries bow'd beneath The blessed golden grain; Wave the corn-fields like an ocean. Of waves that fret below!" V. Now the casting may begin; See the breach indented there: Ere we run the fusion in, Halt and speed the pious prayer! Pull the plug out See around and about Through the bow of the handle the smoke rushes redGod help us!-the flaming waves burst from their bed. What friend is like the might of fire, While no force can withstand, Whirling ghastly the brand ;- And the works of his hand. Or the curse or the blessing may fall! Benignantly out from the cloud Come the dews, the revivers of all! Avengingly out from the cloud Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball! Hark-a wail from the steeple !-aloud The bell shrills its voice to the crowd! Look-look-red as blood One human look of grief upon the grave The lingerer casts-then turns him to depart, One blessing more than all it reft, it leaves- VI. Now clasp'd the bell within the clay- For the mould may be frail And still with our hope must be mingled the fear- To the dark womb of sacred earth And turn to blessings watched by heaven! That suns beyond the realm of day From the steeple Tolls the bell, Deep and heavy, The death-knell! Guiding with dirge-note-solemn, sad, and slow, To the last home earth's weary wanderers know. Is it that worshipp'd wife It is that faithful mother! Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted, Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band, How oft they miss that tender guide, The care-the watch-the face-the MOTHERAnd where she sate the babes beside, Sits with unloving looks-ANOTHER ! VII. While the mass is cooling now, Let the weary labor rest; In the cool starry time, The workman his task and his travail foregoes- To the cottage loved so dearly! Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating- And the social taper lighteth Each dear face that HOME uniteth; While the gate the town before Heavily swings with sullen roar ! Now darkness is spreading; Now quench'd is the light; But the Burgher, undreading, Looks safe on the nightWhich the evil man watches in awe, For the eye of the Night is the Law! Bliss-dower'd! O daughter of the skies, Hail, holy ORDER, whose employ Call'd the wild man from waste and wold, The instinct of the Fatherland! United thus-each Lelping each, Brisk work the countless hands for ever! Thus link'd the master with the man, Who works gives blessings and commands; Kings glory in the orb and crown- Long in these walls-long may we greet Your footfalls, Peace and Concord sweet! Distant the day, oh! distant far, When the rude hordes of trampling War Shall scare the silent vale; And where, Now the sweet heaven, when day doth leave Limns its soft rose-hues on the veil of Eve, Shall the fierce war-brand tossing in the gale, From town and hamlet shake the horrent glare! VIII. Now its destined task fulfill'd, Asunder break the prison-mould; Let the goodly Bell we build, Eye and heart alike behold. The hammer down heave, Till the cover it cleave: For not till we shatter the wall of its cell Can we lift from its darkness and bondage the Bell. To break the mould the Master may, If skill'd the hand and ripe the hour; But woe, when on its fiery way Frantic and blind, with thunder-knell, Behold the red Destruction come! And from their thrall the Millions start, Proclaiming discord wide and far, Rush the roused people at the sound! And Universal Crime is Law! No torch, though lit from Heaven, illumes IX. Rejoice and laud the prospering skies! Rim and crown glitter bright, And even the scutcheon, clear-graven, shall tell Come in-come in, My merry men-we'll form a ring, The new-born labor christening; And "CONCORD " we will name her! To union may her heartfelt call In brother-love attune us all! May she the destined glory win For which the Master sought to frame herAloft-(all earth's existence under), In blue-pavilion'd heaven afar To dwell-the Neighbor of the Thunder, Be hers above a voice to raise Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere Who, while they move, their maker praise And lead around the wreathed year. To solemn and eternal things We dedicate her lips sublime, As hourly, calmly, on she swings, But now so mighty, melts away- "Why, then, does he never let me in when I knock at his door? He does not even answer me." "He locks himself in, that he may not be interrupted; and when an artist is at work, he neither sees nor hears any thing else; you are not just, mother; but you will see that Dominico will not disgrace his father's name-as for Marietta " THE town of Venice lay glittering in one of those gorgeous sunsets for which it is remarkable. The sultry heat of a day in the month of August, in the year 1575, had given place to the coolness of evening, when an old woman opened the door of a house, near the church of Santa Maria dell' Orta. The door which had been opened by the old woman, led into a small garden, into which she slowly advanced, leaning on her cane, and pausing occasionally to examine the fruit which hung in rich profusion from the boughs of the trees with which the little garden was well stocked. A quick step behind her caused her to look round. "Ah! is it you, Giacomo?" said she; "but you look me-but as for Marietta, she will neither play nor sing. displeased; what is the matter now?" "The matter!" replied the person who had joined her: "isn't it getting so dark that I can no longer see to paint?" at the same time breaking to pieces a small brush used by painters to mix their colors, much in the same way that an angry child breaks a toy. 66 But my colors are all prepared; I was too busy to remember the hour; and by to-morrow they will be all dry and spoilt, and I shall have to begin all over again." "Marietta! holy Virgin! what have you to reproach that poor child with ?" "Many things, mother. You know well that, having only two children, I earestly desired that one should study painting, the other music: Dominico had obeyed How long is it, mother, since she has even touched her mandoline? and yet she knows well that the sound of her voice whilst I am at work has an inexpressible charm for me; but she cares not to please me," added the querulous painter. "Well, well, Giacomo, I will speak to her if you will Night comes to all alike, my son," said the old wo- not always be finding fault; first with the day, because man, in a tone of gentle rebuke. it will not last longer just to please you; or with the sun, because it shines too much or too little; then with me, your old mother, because I cannot see much difference between dyeing and painting; then with poor little Marietta, as good and gentle a girl as any in Venice. Instead of calling you Il Tintoretto,' the Venetians had better call you, as the canons of St. Roch did, ‘Il Furioso.'" "The dye is soon mixed," returned his mother. "The dye!" exclaimed Giacomo, indignantly; "you talk as if you were still the wife of a dyer instead of the mother of a painter, the mother of The Tintoretto," he added, proudly. "There isn't so much difference between dyeing and painting," replied his mother with perfect composure; "both are done with colors." แ "No difference!" interrupted Giacomo, impatiently. "It's only the way of using the colors that makes the difference; and I, the daughter and wife of a dyer, ought to know as much about it as you do. I do not want any one to tell me how to use colors." "Well!" said her son, suppressing an exclamation of impatience," we need not talk any more either about dyeing or painting. Where are my children, mother? we will talk of them." "Ah! what have you to say of Dominico, and of my pretty Marietta?" said the old lady, as she took her son's arm, apparently well pleased to change the con "Ah, ah!" exclaimed the artist, as his countenance suddenly brightened, "you do well to remind me of that triumph! I am proud, indeed, when I recollect the astonishment of my competitors at the proof I gave of the facility with which I could execute a work. My picture was finished and in its place before they had even sketched theirs; that was indeed a triumph." The anecdote above alluded to is related in every life of the Tintoretto, in proof of his wonderful facility and readiness, as well as of the impetuosity and singularity of his character. Amongst his rivals on this occasion were to be found the names of Paul Veronese, Salvatia, and Zucchero. The monks having desired a design from each for the intended picture, the Tintoretto secretly obtained the dimensions of the place for which it was destined, and painted the patron saint, St. Roch, ascending to the throne of the Most High, surrounded by Angels. Unknown to the monks, it was placed in Why, that Dominico will do me credit, and add to the intended place. When the competitors met to exmy fame and happiness," said the father. "Have you hibit their compositions, the Tintoretto caused his work seen his painting, ordered by the canons of St. Ambro-to be suddenly uncovered, and displayed to the astonsio for their little chapel of Sta. Maria dell' Orta ?” ished assemblage, who could not suppress their exclam"How should I have seen it," returned the Signora ations of surprise at the extraordinary talent and Robusta, "when I scarcely ever see Dominico himself? rapidity evinced by the artist. In consideration of the -he is seldom at home." compliment paid to their patron saint, the canons allow versation. "On the contrary, he is generally at work in his ed the painting to remain, though somewhat displeased studio." A celebrated painter, whose real name was Giacomo Robusti, born at Venice in 1512; surnamed The Tintoretto, from his father being a dyer. He studied under Titian, and rose to high reputation. at the deception practised on their community. To return to our tale. The Signora Robusta shook her head as she replied: "It may have been a triumph, Giacomo; but I do not sce what good it did you, nor of what use painting is." |