“Enough! enough! oh God! but I have pray’d To thee, in early daylight and in shade, And the mad-curse is on me still—and still! I cannot alter the eternal will— But—but—I hate thee Agathè! I hate What lunacy hath made me consecrate: I am _not_ mad!—_not now!_—I do not feel That slumberous and blessed opiate steal Up to my brain—oh! that it only would, To people this eternal solitude With fancies, and fair dreams, and summer-mirth, Which is not now—and yet my mother earth I would not love to lie above thee so As Agathè lies there—Oh! no! no! no! To have these clay worms feast upon my heart! And all the light of being to depart Into a dismal shadow! I could die As the red lightnings, quenching amid sky Their wild and wizard breath; I could away Like a blue billow bursting into spray: But never—never have corruption here To feed her worms and let the sunlight jeer Above me so. ’Tis thou! I owe thee, moon, To-night’s fair worship; so be lifting soon Thy veil of clouds, that I may kneel as one That seeketh for thy virgin benison!” He gathers the cold limpets as they creep On the gray rocks beside the lonely deep, And with a flint breaks through into the shell, And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well. And he hath lifted water in a clam And tasted sweetly from a stream that swam Down to the sea; and now is turn’d away Again, again, to gaze on Agathè! There is a cave upon that isle—a cave Where dwelt a hermit-man: the winter wave Roll’d to its entrance, casting a bright mound Of snowy shells and fairy pebbles round; And over were the solemn ridges strewn Of a dark rock, that, like the wizard throne Of some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hung Wild thorn and bramble in confusion flung Amid the startling crevices—like sky Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by. A cataract fell over, in a streak Of silver, playing many a wanton freak; Midway, and musical, with elfin glee It bounded in its beauty to the sea, Like dazzling angel vanishing away. In sooth, ’twas pleasant in the moonlight gray To see that fairy fountain leaping so, Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe! The hermit had his cross and rosary: I ween like other hermits so was he, A holy man and frugal, and at night He prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the light Of the fair moon went wandering beside The lonely sea, to hear the silver tide Rolling in gleesome music to the shore; The more he heard he loved to hear the more. And there he is, his hoary beard adrift To the night winds, that sportingly do lift Its snow-white tresses; and he leaneth on A rugged staff, all weakly and alone, A childless, friendless man!