And now the truth had flash’d into his brain: 
    And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain,
    Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;
    For long ago he gave that blessed cross
    To his fair girl, and knew the relic still,
    By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will
    Before it, of the one that was not now,
    But, like a dream, had floated from the brow
    Of Time, that seeth many a lovely thing
    Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.

    The heart is burst!—­the heart that stood in steel
    To woman’s earnest tears, and bade her feel
    The curse of virgin solitude,—­a veil;
    And saw the gladsome features growing pale
    Unmoved:  ’tis rent, like some eternal tower
    The sea hath shaken, and its stately power
    Lies lonely, fallen, scatter’d on the shore: 
    ’Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, before
    The Deluge, stood in glory and in might,
    But now is lightning-riven, and the night
    Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,
    Like coffins, here and there:  ’tis rent! the throne
    Where passions, in their awful anarchy,
    Stood sceptred!  There was heard an inward sigh,
    That took the being, on its troubled wings,
    Far to the land of dim imaginings!

    All three are dead; that desolate green isle
    Is only peopled by the passing smile
    Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense,
    They look so radiant with intelligence,—­
    So like the soul’s own element,—­so fair! 
    The features of a God lie veiled there!

    And mariners that have been toiling far
    Upon the deep, and lost the polar star,
    Have visited that island, and have seen
    That lover’s grave:  and many there have been
    That sat upon the gray and crumbling stone,
    And started, as they saw a skeleton
    Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew
    Through the white wasted ribs; but never knew
    Of those who slept below, or of the tale
    Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale
    And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,—­
    Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathe!

* * * * *

We found them,—­children of toil and tears,
Their birth of beauty shaded;
We left them in their early years
Fallen and faded.

We found them, flowers of summer hue: 
Their golden cups were lighted
With sparkles of the pearly dew—­
We left them blighted!

We found them,—­like those fairy flowers;
And the light of morn lay holy
Over their sad and sainted bowers—­
We left them, lowly.

We found them,—­like twin stars, alone,
In brightness and in feeling;
We left them,—­and the curse was on
Their beauty stealing.

They rest in quiet, where they are: 
Their lifetime is the story
Of some fair flower—­some silver star,
Faded in glory!