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 of brown,
He sees but the high campanili that rise o’er each far-gleaming town. 
Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain,
And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream;
Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon’s broad
  stream. 
’Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued
  air,
As it lay on lone Scattery’s island, or lit the green mountains of
  Clare;
The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as
  still
As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far
  fairy hill,[98]
To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the
  tide,
And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark
  vessel’s side.