Giotto's Campanile

Aubrey Thomas de Vere

Enchased with precious marbles, pure and rare,
How gracefully it soars, and seems the while
From every polished stage to laugh and smile,
Playing with sportive gleams of lucid air!
Pit resting-place methinks its summit were
For a descended angel! happy isle,
Alid life's rough sea of sorrow, force, and guile,
For saint of royal race, or vestal fair,
In this seclusion, — call it not a prison, —
Cloistering a bosom innocent and lonely.
O Tuscan Priestess! gladly would I Match
All night one note of thy loud hymn to catch
Sent forth to greet the sun, when first, new-risen,
He shines on that aerial station only!