Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and
  within;
Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the
  din;
Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the
  gale;
And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o’er the vale. 
Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? 
Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? 
Ah, no:  ’tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine;
And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of
  the vine.

Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o’er that vine-cover’d plain;
Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the
  grain. 
But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest
  and best,
And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o’er a valley of rest. 
But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun,
What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?—­what ruin and wrong
  have been done? 
What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair;
And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair!

Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are
  removed,
Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?—­
And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form
  this spot? 
And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover’d
  cot? 
’Tis morning—­no Mass-bell is tolling; ’tis noon, but no Angelus rings;
’Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. 
Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door
  flown? 
And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone?

His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night
Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of
  the fight;
Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the
  gloom,
And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the
  tomb,
That cottage, its vine-cover’d porch and its myrtle-bound garden of
  flowers,
That church whence 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