And Julio hath stolen the dark chest Where the fair nun lay coffin’d, in the rest That wakes not up at morning; she is there An image of cold calm! One tress of hair Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow; But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now; And their long lashes delicately rest On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west, That fall upon a colorless sad cloud. Humility lies rudely on the proud, But she was never proud; and there she is, A yet unwither’d flower the autumn breeze Hath blown from its green stem! ’Tis pale, ’Tis pale, But still unfaded, like the twilight veil That falleth after sunset; like a stream That bears the burden of a silver gleam Upon its waters; and is even so,— Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low! Beauty in death! a tenderness upon The rude and silent relics, where alone Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead! The look of being where the breath is fled! The unwarming sun still joyous in its light! A time—a time without a day or night! Death cradled upon beauty, like a bee Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly! Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness, Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness! And there she is; and Julio bends o’er The sleeping girl—a willow on the shore Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its fair bough Into the bitter waters,—even now Taking a foretaste of the awful trance That was to pass on his own countenance! Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse Is passing to his heart, and to his eye That is not tearful; but the light will die Leaving it like a moon within a mist,— The vision of a spell-bound visionist! He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek, That left no trace—no flush—no crimson streak But was as bloodless as a marble stone, Susceptible of silent waste alone. And on her brow a crucifix he laid,— A jewel’d crucifix, the virgin maid Had given him before she died,—the moon Shed light upon her visage—clouded soon, Then briefly breaking from its airy veil, Like warrior lifting up his aventayle. But Julio gazed on, and never lifted Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted One after one, like infant elves at play, Amid the night winds, in their lonely way— Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep, And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep Over their couches of green moss and flowers, And solitary fern, and heather bowers. The heavy bell toll’d two, and, as it toll’d, Julio started, and the fresh-turn’d mould He flung into the empty chasm with speed, And o’er it dropt the flagstone.—One could read That Agathè lay there; but still the girl Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl, That from the deep sea-waters had been rent— Like a star fallen from the firmament!