That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain
In the cold earth, and heard a requiem
Sung over her--To him it was a dream!
A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;
He look'd, and saw, and started--she was there!
And Agathè had died; she that was bright--
She that was in her beauty! a cold blight
Fell over the young blossom of her brow.
And the life-blood grew chill--She is not, now.

She died, like zephyr falling amid flowers!
Like to a star within the twilight hours
Of morning--and she was not! Some have thought
The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught,
That stole into her heart, and sadly rent
The fine chords of that holy instrument,
Until its music falter'd fast away,
And she--she died,--the lovely Agathè!

Again, and through the arras of the gloom
Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb
Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye
Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie
At ebb within the sea. Oh! he is wan,
As winter skies are wan, like ages gone,
And stars unseen for paleness; it is cast,
As foliage in the raving of the blast,
All his fair bloom of thoughts! Is the moon chill,
That in the dark clouds she is mantled still?
And over its proud arch hath Heaven flung