He durst not break the vow—­he durst not be
    The one he would—­and his heart’s harmony
    Became a tide of sorrow.  Even so,
    He felt hope die,—­in madness and in woe! 
    But there came one—­and a most lovely one
    As ever to the warm light of the sun
    Threw back her tresses,—­a fair sister girl,
    With a brow changing between snow and pearl,
    And the blue eyes of sadness, fill’d with dew
    Of tears,—­like Heaven’s own melancholy blue,—­
    So beautiful, so tender; and her form
    Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,
    Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow—­
    Oh!  I had fancied of the hues that borrow
    Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright
    In her own self,—­a mystery of light! 
    With feelings tender as a star’s own hue,
    Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;
    For it will glitter in each early sky,
    And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

    And this was Agathe, young Agathe,
    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 Agathe!

    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.