At last, he became monk, and, on his knees,
Said holy prayers, and with wild penances
Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim,
That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him,
Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed
With none of the mad thoughts that were at first
The poison of his quiet; but he grew
To love the world and its wild laughter too,
As he had known before; and wish'd again
To join the very mirth he hated then!
He durst not break the vow--he durst not be
The one he would--and his heart's harmony
Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,
He felt hope die,--in madness and in woe!
But there came one--and a most lovely one
As ever to the warm light of the sun
Threw back her tresses,--a fair sister girl,
With a brow changing between snow and pearl,
And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew
Of tears,--like Heaven's own melancholy blue,--
So beautiful, so tender; and her form
Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,
Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow--
Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow
Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright
In her own self,--a mystery of light!
With feelings tender as a star's own hue,
Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;
For it will glitter in each early sky,
And her first love be love that lasteth aye!
And this was Agathe, young Agathe,
A motherless, fair girl: and many a day
She wept for her lost parent.
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