Passed the year's young pilgrim daughters—
Days both jubilant and lorn—
Till o'er Adria's waste of waters,

Rose-like, flowered the Easter morn.

While the harbour shimmered steely,
And the bloom of morning grew,
Toward the stately campanile

Strode the ringers, two by two.

Soared a shout of acclamation
Up as if some Titan spoke,
And with murmurous exultation
Waited each the triumph stroke.

Gnarled muscles swelled with tension
As the ringers strained and bowed;
Then a wave of apprehension

Swept upon the gathered crowd;

For they saw the bells wide-swinging,
Mouths agape as though to peal,
Yet they heard no sound down-ringing
From the yawning throats of steel.

Cried one loudly, "We should rue us
For the tale this Easter tells!
Hath not Jesus spoken to us

In the silence of these bells?

"Back with them to Fossombrone!"

Swiftly back their prize they bore, And beneath the highlands stony

Found the bells their voice once more.

And the men of Fano, chided

By the melody renewed,

Clasped the hands of those derided,

Buried deep the olden feud.

Seaward from the mountain valley,
Heralding the happier times,
Rang through grove and olive alley
Fossombrone's peerless chimes.

CLINTON SCOLLARD..

FANO

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

DEAR and great angel, wouldst thou only leave That child, when thou hast done with him, for

me!

Let me sit all the day here, that when eve

Shall find performed thy special ministry And time come for departure, thou, suspending Thy flight, mayst see another child for tending, Another still, to quiet and retrieve.

Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more, From where thou standest now, to where I gaze, And suddenly my head be covered o'er

With those wings, white above the child who

prays

Now on that tomb,-and I shall feel thee guarding Me, out of all the world; for me discarding

Yon heaven thy home, that waits and opes its door!

I would not look up thither past thy head
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
For I should have thy gracious face instead,
Thou bird of God! and wilt thou bend me low

Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together,
And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's
spread?

If this was ever granted, I would rest

My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands Close-covered both my eyes beside thy breast, Pressing the brain, which too much thought expands,

Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing, And all lay quiet, happy, and supprest.

How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired! I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared

After thy healing, with such different eyes. O world, as God has made it! all is beauty: And knowing this, is love, and love is duty. What further may be sought for or declared?

Guercino drew this angel I saw teach

(Alfred, dear friend)—that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each

Pressed gently,—with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er

him,

And he was left at Fano by the beach.

We were at Fano, and three times we went
To sit and see him in his chapel there,
And drink his beauty to our soul's content,-

My angel with me too; and since I care
For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power
And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent),

And since he did not work so earnestly
At all times, and has else endured some wrong,
I took one thought his picture struck from me,

And spread it out, translating it to song.
My Love is here. Where are you, dear old friend?
How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.

ROBERT BROWNING.