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 Agathe!

    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
    A scarf of darkness?  Agathe was young! 
    And there should be the virgin silver there,
    The snow-white fringes delicately fair!

    He wields a heavy mattock in his hands,
    And over him a lonely lanthorn stands
    On a near niche, shedding a sickly fall
    Of light upon a marble pedestal,
    Whereon is chisel’d rudely, the essay
    Of untaught tool, “Hic jacet Agathe!”
    And Julio hath bent him down in speed,
    Like one that doeth an unholy deed.

    There is a flagstone lieth heavily
    Over the ladye’s grave; I wist of three
    That bore it, of a blessed verity! 
    But he hath lifted it in his pure madness,
    As it were lightsome as a summer gladness,
    And from the carved niche hath ta’en the lamp,
    And hung it by the marble flagstone damp.

    And he is flinging the dark, chilly mould
    Over the gorgeous pavement:  ’tis a cold,
    Sad grave, and there is many a relic there
    Of chalky bones, which, in the wasting air,
    Fell smouldering away; and he would dash
    His mattock through them, with a cursed clash,
    That made the lone aisle echo.  But anon
    He fell upon a skull,—­a haggard one,
    With its teeth set, and the great orbless eye
    Revolving darkness, like eternity—­
    And in his hand he held it, till it grew
    To have the fleshy features and the hue
    Of life.  He gazed, and gazed, and it became
    Like to his Agathe—­all, all the same! 
    He drew it nearer,—­the cold, bony thing!—­
    To kiss the worm-wet lips.  “Ay! let me cling—­
    Cling to thee now, for ever!” but a breath
    Of rank corruption from its jaws of death
    Went to his nostrils, and he madly laugh’d,
    And dash’d it over on the altar shaft,
    Which the new risen moon, in her gray light,
    Had fondly flooded, beautifully bright!