They knew thou wert a queen, my royal bride! 
    And made obeisance at thy holy side. 
    They saw thee, Agathe! and go to bring
    Fair worshippers, and many a poet-king,
    To utter music at thy pearly feet.—­
    Now, wake thee! for the moonlight cometh sweet,
    To visit in thy temple of the sea;
    Thy sister moon is watching over thee! 
    And she is spreading a fair mantle of
    Pure silver, in thy lonely palace, love!—­
    Now, wake thee! for the sea-bird is aloof,
    In solitude, below the starry roof;
    And on its dewy plume there is a light
    Of palest splendour, o’er the blessed night. 
    Thy spirit, Agathe!—­and yet, thou art
    Beside me, and my solitary heart
    Is throbbing near to thee:  I must not feel
    The sweet notes of thy holy music steal
    Into my feverous and burning brain,—­
    So wake not! and I’ll hush thee with a strain
    Of my wild fancy, till thou dream of me,
    And I be loved as I have loved thee:—­

SONG

    ’Tis light to love thee living, girl, when hope is full and fair,
    In the springtide of thy beauty, when there is no sorrow there—­
    No sorrow on thy brow, and no shadow on thy heart! 
    When, like a floating sea-bird, bright and beautiful thou art!

    ’Tis light to love thee living, girl—­to see thee ever so,
    With health, that, like a crimson flower, lies blushing in the snow;
    And thy tresses falling over, like the amber on the pearl—­
    Oh! true it is a lightsome thing, to love thee living, girl!

    But when the brow is blighted, like a star of morning tide,
    And faded is the crimson blush upon the cheek beside;
    It is to love, as seldom love, the brightest and the best,
    When our love lies like a dew upon the one that is at rest.

    Because of hopes, that, fallen, are changing to despair,
    And the heart is always dreaming on the ruin that is there,
    Oh, true! ’tis weary, weary, to be gazing over thee,
    And the light of thy pure vision breaketh never upon me!

    He lifts her in his arms, and o’er and o’er,
    Upon the brow of chilliness and hoar,
    Repeats a silent kiss;—­along the side
    Of the lone bark, he leans that pallid bride,
    Until the waves do image her within
    Their bosom, like a spectre—­’Tis a sin
    Too deadly to be shadow’d or forgiven,
    To do such mockery in the sight of Heaven! 
    And bid her gaze into the startled sea,
    And say, “Thy image, from eternity,
    Hath come to meet thee, ladye!” and anon,
    He bade the cold corse kiss the shadowy one,
    That shook amid the waters, like the light
    Of borealis in a winter night!