A solitary monk is prowling around in the moonlit cathedral; he has a brow of stony marble, he has raven hair, and he falters out the name of Agathè. He has said adieu to that fair one, and to her sister Peace, that lieth in her grave. He has loved, and loves, the silent Agathè. He was the son of a Crusader,
“And Julio had fain
Have been a warrior, but his very brain
Grew fevered at the sickly thought of death,
And to be stricken with a want of breath.”
On the whole he did well not to enter the service. Mr. Aytoun has here written—“A rum Cove for a hussar.”
“And he would say
A curse be on their laurels.
And anon
Was Julio forgotten and his line—
No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine.”
How? asks Aytoun, nor has the grammatical enigma yet been unriddled.
“Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!
But loved not Death; his purpose was between
Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there
Like a wild bird that floated far and fair
Betwixt the sun and sea!”
So “he became monk,” and was sorry he had done so, especially when he met a pretty maid,
“And this was Agathè, young Agathè,
A motherless fair girl,”
whose father was a kind of Dombey, for
“When she 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!”