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 Agathe 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!
He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,
To westward of the solitary church;
And he hath clasp'd around the melting waist
The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is press'd
To hers--Life warming the cold chill of Death!
And over his pale palsy breathing breath
His eye is sunk upon her--"Thou must leave
The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve
Without thee, as I may not.
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