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 Agathe—­
    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 Agathe, 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 Agathe;
    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—­
    “Can Agathe be faithless, and forget?”

    It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
    “Poor Julio! thy Agathe is dead,”
    And started.  He had loiter’d in the train
    That bore her to the grave:  he saw her lain
    In the cold earth, and heard a requiem
    Sung over her—­To him it was a dream! 
    A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;
    He look’d, and saw, and started—­she was there! 
    And Agathe had died; she that was bright—­
    She that was in her beauty! a cold blight
    Fell over the young blossom of her brow. 
    And the life-blood grew chill—­She is not, now.