The Death-Wake. Stoddart Thomas Tod

      And this was Agathè, young Agathè,

      A motherless, fair girl: and many a day

      She wept for her lost parent. It was sad

      To see her infant sorrow; how she bade

      The flow of her wild spirits fall away

      To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day

      Melting into a shower: and it was sad

      Almost to think she might again be glad,

      Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall

      Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall,

      She had lived almost sorrowless her days:

      But he felt no affection for the gaze

      Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,

      He bade no father's welcome to the child,

      But even told his wish, and will'd it done,

      For her to be sad-hearted – and a nun!

      And so it was. She took the dreary veil,

      A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale

      Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels

      The winds of autumn and the winter chills,

      That darken his fair suns. – It was away,

      Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!

      The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn

      Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,

      Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread,

      As of one musing sadly on the dead —

      'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be

      Often alone within the sanctuary;

      But now, not so – another: it was she!

      Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint

      Before a crucifix; but sad and faint

      The tone of her devotion, as the trill

      Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.

      And Julio stood before her; – 'twas as yet

      The hour of the pale twilight – and they met

      Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue

      Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw

      Her veil above her features, and stole by

      Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

      Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,

      A dreamer! – "Is the sister ladye gone?"

      He started at the silence of the air

      That slumber'd over him – she is not there.

      And either slept not through the live-long night,

      Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,

      Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose

      In sorrow from the pallet of repose;

      For the dark thought of their sad destiny

      Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,

      That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve

      They met again, but, silent, took their leave,

      As they did yesterday: another night,

      And neither spake awhile – A pure delight

      Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently

      Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathè —

      At length, "Fair Nun!" – She started, and held fast

      Her bright hand on her lip – "the past, the past,

      And the pale future! There be some that lie

      Under those marble urns – I know not why,

      But I were better in that only calm,

      Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.

      The past! – ay! it hath perish'd; never, never,

      Would I recall it to be blest for ever:

      The future it must come – I have a vow" —

      And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow.

      "True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon

      Abroad, fair Nun?" – "Indeed! so very soon?"

      Said Agathè, and "I must then away." —

      "Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!"

      But she was gone: – yet they met many a time

      In the lone chapel, after vesper chime —

      They met in love and fear.

      One weary day,

      And Julio saw not his loved Agathè;

      She was not in the choir of sisterhood

      That sang the evening anthem, and he stood

      Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile;

      But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.

      She was not there; and, after all were gone,

      He linger'd: the stars came – he linger'd on,

      Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb

      Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom

      Upon his heart – a solitude – a chill.

      The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still.

      And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet —