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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;
Her home is her life.
And she cautions the boys,
Employ'd she employs;
And the much makes the more ;
Blithe the Master (where the while
From his roof he sees them smile),
Eyes the lands, and counts the gain;
The blessed golden grain;
Of waves that fret below !”
Swift are the steps of woe.
Dip this wand of clay within;
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!
Lovely, thither are they bringing,
With her virgin wreath, the Bride !
Tolls the church-bell far and wide!
Must the May of Life depart;
Though Passion be mute;
They yield to the fruit.
The hostile life,
To pray and importune,
And hunt down his fortune!
Now the casting may begin;
See the breach indented there :
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!
Now clasp'd the bell within the clay
The mould the mingled metals fill-
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,
May warm them into bloom!
From the steeple
Tolls the bell,
The death-knell !
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,
While no force can withstand,
Whirling ghastly the brand ;
And the works of his hand.
Or the curse or the blessing may fall!
Come the dews, the revivers of all!
Come the levin, the bolt, and the ball !
All on high !
Roars up through the street;
Rolls on through the street,
And the air like the steam from a furnace glows,
As the links in a chain,
Again and again
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
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 !
While the mass 19 cooling now,
Let the weary labor rest;
In the cool starry time,
At the sweet vesper-chime,
And the social taper lighteth
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 ;
As panthers rend their prey !
Of Shame's religious, noble awe;
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,
And, best of all, the happy ties,
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
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
Distant the day, oh! distant far,
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,
And “ CONCORD " we will name her!
For which the Master sought to frame her Aloft-(all earth's existence under),
In blue-pavilion'd heaven afar
The Borderer of the Star;
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.
Now its destined task fulfill'd,
Asunder break the prison-mould;
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,
Behold the red Destruction come!
The latent spark to flame is blown;
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."
“ Have you
* A celebrated painter, whose real name was Giacomo Robusti, born