And either slept not through the live-long night, Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright, Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose In sorrow from the pallet of repose: For the dark thought of their sad destiny Came o’er them, like a chasm of the deep sea, That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve They met again, but, silent, took their leave, As they did yesterday: another night, And neither spoke awhile—a pure delight, Had chasten’d love’s first blushes: silently Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè— At length, “Fair Nun!” she started, and held fast Her bright hand on her lips—“the past, the past, And the pale future! there be some that lie Under those marble urns—I know not why, But I were better in that holy calm, Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am. The past!—ay! it hath perish’d; never, never, Would I recall it to be blest for ever; The future it must come—I have a vow”— And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow, “True, true, I have a vow; is not the moon Abroad, fair nun?”—“indeed! so very soon?” Said Agathè, and “I must then away.” “Stay, love! ’tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!” But she was gone:—yet they met many a time In the lone chapel, after vesper chime— They met in love and fear. One weary day, And Julio saw not his loved Agathè; She was not in the choir of sisterhood That sang the evening anthem; and he stood Like one that listen’d breathlessly awhile; But stranger voices chanted through the aisle. She was not there; and after all were gone, He linger’d: the stars came—he linger’d on, Like a dark fun’ral image on the tomb Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom Upon his heart—a solitude—a chill. The pale moon rose, and still he linger’d still. And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet— “Can Agathè be faithless and forget?” It was the third sad eve, he heard it said, “Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;” And started. He had loiter’d in the train 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’s 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!