and Julio started, as the strain
    Of exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:—­
    “I knew thee, father, that thou beest here,
    To gaze upon this girl, as I have been. 
    By yonder moon! it was a frantic sin
    To worship so an image of the clay;
    It was like beauty—­but is now away—­
    What lived upon her features, like the light
    On yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;
    But it is faded as the other must,
    And she that was all beauty, is all dust.”

    “Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine,
    And tell me, is it cold?—­But she will twine
    No wreath upon these temples,—­never, never! 
    For there she lieth, like a streamless river
    That stagnates in its bed.  Feel, feel me, here,
    If I be madly throbbing in the fear
    For that cold slimy worm.  Ay! look and see
    How dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly! 
    And where it is, have been the living hues
    Of beauty, purer than the very dews. 
    So, father! seest thou that yonder moon
    Will be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon? 
    And I, that feel my being wear away,
    Shall droop beside to darkness; so, but say
    A prayer for the dead, when I am gone,
    And let the azure tide that floweth on
    Cover us lightly with its murmuring surf
    Like a green sward of melancholy turf. 
    Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rear
    A cenotaph on this lone island here,
    Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,
    And carve an olden rhyme for her and me
    Upon its brow.”

                   He bends, and gazes yet
    Before his ghastly bride! the anchoret
    Sate by him, and hath press’d a cross of wood
    To his wan lips.

* * * * *

“My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale. 
Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale. 
Alas!  I fear but thou hast strangely been
A child of curse, and misery, and sin. 
And this—­is she thy sister?”—­“Nay! my bride.” 
“A nun! and thou:”—­“True, true! but then she died,
And was a virgin, and is virgin still,
Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fill
Of light from the great sun.  But now, go by,
And leave me to my madness, or to die! 
This heart, this brain are sore.—­Come, come, and fold
Me round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,
That are so writhing your eternal gyres
Before the moon, which, with a myriad tiars
Is crowning you, as ye do fall and kiss
Her pearly feet, that glide in blessedness! 
Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die! 
Let me be mangled sore with agony! 
And be so cursed, so stricken by the spell
Of my heart’s frenzy, that a living hell
Be burning there!—­Back! back! if thou art mad—­
Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad. 
Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see! 
In truth it is a piteous thing for thee