“And there are shafted pillars, that beyond, Are ranged before a rook of diamond, Awfully heaving its eternal heights, From base of silver strewn with chrysolites; And over it are chasms of glory seen, With crimson rubies clustering between, On sward of emerald, with leaves of pearl, And topazes hung brilliantly on beryl, So Agathè!—but thou art sickly sad, And tellest me, poor Julio is mad,— Ay, mad!—was he not madder when he swore A vow to Heaven? Was there no madness then, That he should do—for why?—a holy string Of penances? No penances will bring The stricken conscience to the blessed light Of peace.—Oh! I am lost, and there is night, Despair, and darkness, darkness and despair, And want, that hunts me to the lion-lair Of wild perdition: and I hear them all— All cursing me! The very sun-rays fall In curses, and the shadow of the moon, And the pale star-light, and the winds that tune Their voices to the music of the sea, And thou,—yes, thou! my gentle Agathè!— All curse me!—oh! that I were never, never! Or but a breathless fancy, that was ever Adrift upon the wilderness of Time, That knew no impulse, but was left sublime To play at its own will!—that I were hush’d At night by silver cataracts, that gush’d Through flowers of fairy hue, and then to die Away, with all before me passing by. Like a fair vision I had lived to see, And died to see no more!—it cannot be! By this right hand! I feel it is not so, And by the beating of a heart below, That strangely feareth for eternity!” He said, and gazing on the lonely sea, Far off he saw, like an ascending cloud, To westward, a bright island, lifted proud Amid the struggling waters, and the light Of the great sun was on its clifted height, Scattering golden shadow, like a mirror; But the gigantic billows sprung in terror Upon its rock-built and eternal shore, With silver foams, that fell in fury o’er A thousand sunny breakers. Far above, There stood a wild and solitary grove Of aged pines, all leafless but their brows, Where a green group of tempest-stricken boughs Was waving now and then, and to and fro, And the pale moss was clustering below. Then Julio saw, and bent his head away To the cold wasted corse of Agathè, And sigh’d; but ever he would turn again A gaze to that green island on the main.