A train of holy fathers windeth by The arches of an aged sanctuary, With cowl, and scapular, and rosary, On to the sainted oriel, where stood, By the rich altar, a fair sisterhood— A weeping group of virgins!—one or two Bent forward to a bier of solemn hue, Whereon a bright and stately coffin lay, With its black pall flung over:—Agathè Was on the lid—a name. And who? No more! ’Twas only Agathè. ’Tis o’er, ’tis o’er— Her burial!—and, under the arcades, Torch after torch into the moonlight fades, And there is heard the music, a brief while, Over the roofings of the imaged aisle, From the deep organ, panting out its last, Like the slow dying of an autumn blast. A lonely monk is loitering within The dusky area, at the altar seen, Like a pale spirit, kneeling in the light Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white Through the deviced oriel; and he lays His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze To the chill earth. He had the youthful look Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook At every gust of the unholy breeze That entered through the time-worn crevices. A score of summers only o’er his brow Had passed—and it was summer, even now The one-and-twentieth—from a birth of tears, Over a waste of melancholy years! And _that_ brow was as wan as if it were Of snowy marble, and the raven hair, That would have clustered over, was all shorn, And his fine features stricken pale as morn. He kiss’d a golden crucifix, that hung Around his neck, and, in a transport, flung Himself upon the earth, and said, and said Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead; And then he rose, and in the moon-shade stood, Gazing upon its light in solitude, And smote his brow, at some idea wild That came across; then, weeping like a child, He faltered out the name of Agathè, And look’d unto the heaven inquiringly, And the pure stars. “Oh, shame! that ye are met To mock me, like old memories, that yet Break in upon the golden dream I knew While she—_she_ lived; and I have said adieu To that fair one, and to her sister, Peace, That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease To feed upon my quiet, thou Despair, That art the mad usurper, and the heir Of this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return, And bring me back oblivion and an urn! And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind Count o’er its blighted boughs: for such was he That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.” And he hath left the sanctuary, like one That knew not his own purpose—the red sun Rose early over incense of bright mist, That girded a pure sky of amethyst.