thee so,
    As Agathe 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 grey 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 Agathe!

    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!

                                 He is beside
    The ghastly Julio, and his ghastlier bride. 
    ’Twas wondrous strange to gaze upon the two! 
    And the old hermit felt a throbbing through
    His pulses:—­“Holy virgin! save me, save!”
    He deem’d of spectre from the midnight wave,
    And cross’d him thrice, and pray’d, and pray’d again:—­
    “Hence! hence!”