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II. From the fir the fagot take,

Keep it, heap it hard and dry, That the gathered flame may break

Through the furnace, wroth and high.

And lo, as some sweet vision breaks

Out from its native morning skies,

With rosy shame on downcast cheeks.

The Virgin stands before his eyes. A nameless longing seizes him!

From all his wild companions flown; Tears, strange till then, his eyes bedim;

He wanders all alone. Blushing, he glides where'er she move:

Her greeting can transport him; To every mead, to deck his love,

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 !

Within sits Another,

The thrifty Housewife;
The mild one, the mother-

Her home is her life.
In its circle she rules,
And the daughters she schools,

And she cautions the boys,
With a bustling command,
And a diligent hand

Employ'd she employs;
Gives order to store,

And the much makes the more ;
Locks the chest and the wardrobe, with lavender smelling;
And the bum of the spindle goes quick through the dwelling;
And she hoards in the presses, well polish'd and full,
The snow of the linen, the shine of the wool,
Still intent upon use, while providing for show,
And never a rest from her cares doth she know,

Blithe the Master (where the while

From his roof he sees them smile),

Eyes the lands, and counts the gain;
There, the beams projecting far,
And the laden storehouse are,
And the granaries bow'd beneath

The blessed golden grain;
There, in undulating motion,
Wave the corn-fields like an ocean.
Proud the boast the proud lips breathe,
“ My house is built upon a rock,
And sees unmoved the stormy shock

Of waves that fret below !”
Alas! for never mortal state
Can form perpetual truce with Fate !

Swift are the steps of woe.

IV.
Browning o'er, the pipes are simmering,

Dip this wand of clay within;
If like glass the wand be glimmering,
Then the casting may begin.

Brisk, brisk now, and see

If the fusion flow free: If-(happy and welcome indeed were the sign !) If the hard and the ductile united-combine. For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak, And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek,

Rings the concord harmonious, both tender and strong; 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!

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Lovely, thither are they bringing,

With her virgin wreath, the Bride !
To their love-feast clearly ringing,

Tolls the church-bell far and wide!
With that sweetest holiday,

Must the May of Life depart;
With the cestus loosed-away
Flies Illusion from the heart !
Yet Love must be cherished

Though Passion be mute;
If his blossoms be perished,

They yield to the fruit.
The Husband must enter

The hostile life,
With struggle and strife,
To plant or to watch,
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 !

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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.

One human look of grief upon the grave Of all that Fortune gave The lingerer casts--then turns him to depart, And grasps the wanderer's staff and mans his heart: Whatever else the element bereaves, One blessing more than all it reft, it leaves The faces that he loves !--He counts them o'er, Not one dear look is missing from that store!

VI.

Now clasp'd the bell within the clay

The mould the mingled metals fill-
Oh, may it, sparkling into day,
Reward the labor and the skill!

Alas! should it fail,

For the mould may be frailAnd still with our hope must be mingled the fearAnd, ev'n now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!

To the dark womb of sacred earth

This labor of our hands is given, As seeds that wait the second birth,

And turn to blessings watched by heaven! Ah seeds, how dearer far than they

We bury in the dismal tomb,
Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray
That suns beyond the realm of day

May warm them into bloom!

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, From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted. Far from those blithe companions, born Of her, and blooming in their morn: On whom, when couched her heart above, So often look'd the Mother-Love!

What friend is like the might of fire,
When man can watch and wield the ire ?
Whate'er we shape or work, we owe
Still to that heaven-descended glow.
But dread the heaven-descended glow,
When from their chains its wild wings go,
When, where it listeth, wide and wild
Sweeps forth free Nature's free-born Child !
When the Frantic One fleets,

While no force can withstand,
Through the popular streets

Whirling ghastly the brand ;
For the Elements hate
What man's labors create,

And the works of his hand.
Impartially out from the cloud,

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

All on high !
It is not the daylight that fills with its flood

The sky!
What a clamor awaking

Roars up through the street;
What a hell-vapor breaking

Rolls on through the street,
And higher and higher
Aloft moves the Column of Fire !
Through the vistas and rows
Like a whirlwind it goes,

And the air like the steam from a furnace glows,
Beams are crackling--posts are shrinking
Walls are sinking--windows clinking-

Children crying

Mothers flying-
And the beast (the black ruin yet smouldering under)
Yells the howl of its pain and its ghastly wonder!
Hurry and skurry-away-away,
The face of the night is as clear as day!

As the links in a chain,

Again and again
Flies the bucket from hand to hand;

High in arches up-rushing

The engines are gushing; And down comes the storm with a roar! And it chases the flames as they soar.

To the grain and the fruits,

Through the rafters and beams, Through the barns and the garners it crackles and streams! As if they would rend up the earth from its roots,

Rush the flames to the sky

Giant-high;
And at length,
Wearied out and despairing, man bows to their strength !
With an idle gaze sees their wrath consume,
And submits to his doom !

Desolate
The place, and dread;
For storms the barren bed.
In the blank voids that cheerful casements were,
Comes to and fro the melancholy air,
And sits Despair;
And through the ruin, blackening in its shroud,
Peers, as it flits, the melancholy cloud.

Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,

And never, never more to comeShe dwells within the shadowy land

Who was the Mother of that Home! 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 19 cooling now,

Let the weary labor rest;
Blithe as bird upon the bough,
Each to do as lists him best.

In the cool starry time,

At the sweet vesper-chime,
The workman his task and his travail foregoes-
It is only the Master that ne'er may repose

!
Homeward from the tasks of day,
Through the greenwood's welcome way,
Wends the wanderer, light and cheerly,
To the cottage loved so dearly!
And the eye and ear are meeting,
Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating-
Now, the wonted shelter near,
Lowing the lusty-fronted steer ;
Creaking now the heavy wain
Reels with the happy harvest grain.
While, with many-colored leaves,
Glitters the garland on the sheaves ;
For the lower's work is done,
And the young folks' dance begun!
Desert street and quiet mart;
Silence is in the city's heart;

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 !

And from their thrall the Millions start,

No leader but their rage to own! Discordant howls the warning Bell,

Proclaiming discord wide and far, And, born but things of peace to teil,

Becomes the ghastliest voice of war: “Freedom! Equality!"-to blood,

Rush the roused people at the sound ! Through street, hall, palace, roars the flood,

And banded murder closes round ! The hyæna-shapes (that women were !)

Jest with the horrors they survey ;
From human breasts the hearts they tear--

As panthers rend their prey !
Naught rests to hallow;-burst the ties

Of Shame's religious, noble awe;
Before the Vice the Virtue flies,

And Universal Crime is Law! Man fears the lion's kingly trcad;

Man fears the tiger's fangs of terror; But Man himself is most to dread,

When mad with social error. No torch, though lit from Heaven, illumes

The Blind !-Why place it in his hand ? It lights not him-it but consumes

The City and the Land !

Blisg-dower'd! O daughter of the skies,
Hail, holy ORDER, whose employ
Blends like to like in light and joy-
Builder of cities, who of old
Call'd the wild man from waste and wold,
And, in his hut thy presence stealing,
Roused each familiar household feeling ;

And, best of all, the happy ties,
The centre of the social band-
Tho instinct of the Fatherland !

IX.

United thus-eachelping each,

Brisk work the countless hands for ever! For naught its power to Strength can teach,

Like Emulation and Endeavor! Thus link'd the master with the man,

Each in his rights can each revere, And while they march in freedom's van,

Scorn the lewd rout that dogs the rear ! To freemen labor is renown!

Who works-gives blessings and commands; Kings glory in the orb and crown

Be ours the glory of our hands.

Rejoice and laud the prospering skies !

The kernel bursts its husk-behold
From the dull clay the metal rise,
Pure-shining, as a star of gold !

Rim and crown glitter bright,

Like the sun's flash of light, And even the scutcheon, clear-graven, shall tell That the art of a master has fashioned the Bell!

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

The air,

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 !

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 her Aloft-(all earth's existence under),

In blue-pavilion'd heaven afar
To dwell--the Neighbor of the Thunder,

The Borderer of the Star;
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,

Touching, with every movement, Time! No pulse-no heart-no feeling hers,

She lends the warning voice to Fate; And still companions, while she stirs,

The changes of the Human State ! So may she teach us, as her tone,

But now so mighty, melts awayThat earth no life which earth has known

From the last silence can delay.

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

The metal seeks itself to pour. Frantic and blind, with thunder-knell,

Exploding from its shattered home,
And glaring forth, as from a hell,

Behold the red Destruction come!
When rages strength that has no reason,
Thero breaks the mould before the season;
When numbers burst what bound before,
Woe to the State that thrives no more !
Yea, woe when in the city's heart,

The latent spark to flame is blown;

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The town of Venice lay glittering in one of those “Why, then, does he never let me in when I knock gorgeous sunsets for which it is remarkable. The sul- at his door He does not even answer me." try heat of a day in the month of August, in the year “He locks himself in, that he may not be interrupt1575, had given place to the coolness of evening, when ed; and when an artist is at work, he neither sees nur an old woman opened the door of a house, near the hears any thing else; you are not just, mother; but church of Santa Maria dell' Orta. The door which had you will see that Dominico will not disgrace his father's been opened by the old woman, led into a small garden, name—as for Marietta ' into which she slowly advanced, leaning on her cane, “Marietta! holy Virgin! what have you to reproach and pausing occasionally to examine the fruit which that poor child with ?” hung in rich profusion from the boughs of the trees Many things, mother. You know well that, having with which the little garden was well stocked. A quick only two children, I earestly desired that one should step behind her caused her to look round.

study painting, the other music: Dominico had obeyed “Ah! is it you, Giacomo ?” said she;

Jook me—but as for Marietta, she will neither play nor sing. displeased; what is the matter now?"

How long is it, mother, since she has even touched her “ The matter !" replied the person who had joined mandoline ? and yet she knows well that the sound of her: “isn't it getting so dark that I can no longer see her voice whilst I am at work has an inexpressible to paint ?” at the same time breaking to pieces a small charm for me; but she cares not to please me," added brush used by painters to mix their colors, much in the the querulous painter. same way that an angry child breaks a toy.

“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 piease you; or with the “But my colors are all prepared ; I was too busy to sun, because it shines too much or too little; then with remember the hour; and by to-inorrow they will be all me, your old mother, because I cannot see much differdry and spoilt, and I shall have to begin all over ence between dyeing and painting; then with poor litagain.”

tle Marietta, as good and gentle a girl as any in Venice. “The dye is soon inixed,” returned his mother. Instead of calling you •Il Tintoretto,' the Venetians “The dye!" exclaimed Giacomo, indignantly; "you had better call you, as the canons of St. Roch did, “Il talk as if you were still the wife of a dyer instead of Furioso.'' the mother of a painter, the mother of The Tintor- “Ah, ah !” exclaimed the artist, as his countenance etto,”* he added, proudly.

suddenly brightened, "you do well to remind me of “ There isn't so much difference between dyeing and that triumph! I am proud, indeed, when I recollect painting,” replied his mother with perfect composure ; the astonishment of my competitors at the proof I gave " both are done with colors."

of the facility with which I could execute a work. My No difference!" interrupted Giacomo, impatiently. picture was finished and in its place before they had “It's only the way of using the colors that makes the even sketched theirs; that was indeed a triumph.” difference; and I, the daughter and wife of a dyer, The anecdote above alluded to is related in every life ought to know as much about it as you do. I do not of the Tintoretto, in proof of his wonderful facility and want any one to tell me how to use colors."

readiness, as well as of the impetuosity and singularity "Well!” said her son, suppressing an exclamation of of his character. Amongst his rivals on this occasion impatience, we need not talk any more either about were to be found the names of Paul Veronese, Salvatia, dyeing or painting. Where are my children, mother? and Zucchero. The monks having desired a design we will talk of them."

from each for the intended picture, the Tintoretto “Ah! what have you to say of Dominico, and of my secretly obtained the dimensions of the place for which pretty Marietta ?" said the old lady, as she took her it was destined, and painted the patron saint, St. Roch, son's arm, apparently well pleased to change the con- ascending to the throne of the Most High, surrounded versation.

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.

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“On the contrary, he is generally at work in his ed the painting to remain, though somewhat displeased studio."

at the deception practised on their community. To return to our tale. The Signora Robusta shook her

head as she replied :at Venice in 1512; surnamed The Tintoretto, from his father being a

" It may have been a triumph, Giacomo; but I do not dyer. He studied under Titiaa, and rose to hig! reputation.

sce what good it did you, nor of what use painting is."

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* A celebrated painter, whose real name was Giacomo Robusti, born

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