silver foam,
    Amid the crimson corals; we shall be
    Together, Agathe! fair Agathe!—­
    But thou art sickly, ladye—­thou art sad;
    And I am weary, ladye—­I am mad! 
    They bring no food to feed us, and I feel
    A frost upon my vitals, very chill,
    Like winter breaking on the golden year
    Of life.  This bark shall be our floating bier,
    And the dark waves our mourners; and the white,
    Pure swarm of sunny sea birds, basking bright
    On some far isle, shall sorrowfully pour
    Their wail of melancholy o’er and o’er,
    At evening, on the waters of the sea,—­
    While, with its solemn burden, silently,
    Floats forward our lone bark.—­Oh, Agathe! 
    Methinks that I shall meet thee far away,
    Within the awful centre of the earth,
    Where, earliest, we had our holy birth—­
    In some huge cavern, arching wide below,
    Upon whose airy pivot, years ago,
    The world went round:  ’tis infinitely deep,
    But never dismal; for above it sleep,
    And under it, blue waters, hung aloof,
    And held below,—­an amethystine roof,
    A sapphire pavement; and the golden sun,
    Afar, looks through alternately, like one
    That watches round some treasure:  often, too,
    Through many a mile of ocean, sparkling through,
    Are seen the stars and moon, all gloriously,
    Bathing their angel brilliance in the sea!”

    “And there are shafted pillars, that beyond,
    Are ranged before a rock 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 Agathe!—­but thou art sickly sad,
    And tellest me, poor Julio is mad—­
    Ay, mad!—­was he not madder when he sware
    A vow to Heaven? was there no madness there,
    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 Agathe!—­
    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,