Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days,
Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life’s wonderful
  ways;
Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness
  and noise,
Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. 
Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love’s burning
  noon,
Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of
  June,
Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving
  wing,
Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms
  of spring.

The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines,
Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines;
The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the
  air,
And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of
  prayer. 
At morning when Paolo departeth, ’tis out of that sweet cottage door,
At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more;
And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, “The Lord’s will
  be done,”
While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.

PART II.—­TRIUMPH AND REWARD.

In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with
  gold,
As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould;
Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape,
And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o’er the fast-filling
  shape;
To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves,
And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard
  reproves;
And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up
  swells,
For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the
  bells.

Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry
  smiled,
And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of
  a child;
Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped
  lightly around,
And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter
  sound. 
At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press,
Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress;
And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and
  calm,
And to pour over Life’s needful wounds the healing of Love’s blessed
  balm.