The past!--ay! it hath perish'd; never, never,
Would I recall it to be blest for ever:
The future it must come--I have a vow"--
And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow.
"True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon
Abroad, fair Nun?"--"Indeed! so very soon?"
Said Agathè, and "I must then away."--
"Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!"
But she was gone:--yet they met many a time
In the lone chapel, after vesper chime--
They met in love and fear.

One weary day,
And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;
She was not in the choir of sisterhood
That sang the evening anthem, and he stood
Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile;
But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.
She was not there; and, after all were gone,
He linger'd: the stars came--he linger'd on,
Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb
Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom
Upon his heart--a solitude--a chill.
The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still.
And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet--
"Can Agathè be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
"Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead,"
And started. He had loiter'd in the train