And such was young Paolo!  The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had
  gone,
To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. 
In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star
  burned,
And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary
  returned. 
One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the
  stream,
Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon’s
  beam;
For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that
  casement shines
In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis
  of vines.

Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! ’tis not that thy young cheek is
  fair,
Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy
  wind-woven hair;
’Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow,
That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart
  below. 
Goodness is beauty’s best portion, a dower that no time can reduce,
A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with
  use. 
One the long-sigh’d-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and
  taints: 
One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.

Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes
  would start,
For thy face—­like a dream of his boyhood—­renewed the fresh youth of
  his heart;
He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and
  morn,
And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. 
There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens
  are there,
And bright eyes as bright as Francesca’s, and fair cheeks as brilliantly
  fair;
And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings
  gleam,
But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno’s
  sweet stream?

It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear,
That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman’s
  ear,
Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight,
Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of
  the night. 
But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was
  thine,
To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the
  kine,
And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock’s tender
  yearly increase,
That she might have rest in life’s evening, and go to her Father in
  peace.