The sun broke through his dungeon long enthrall'd
By dismal cloud, and on the emerald
Of the great living sea was blazing down,
To gift the lordly billows with a crown
Of diamond and silver. From his cave
The hermit came, and by the dying wave
Lone wander'd, and he found upon the sand,
Below a truss of sea-weed, with his hand
Around the silent waist of Agathè,
The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it lay
Beside the wasted girl. The fireless eye
Was open, and a jewell'd rosary
Hung round the neck; but it was gone,—the cross
That Agathè had given.
Amid the moss,
The hermit scoop'd a solitary grave
Below the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,
Or two, or three, of some old requiem
As in their narrow home he buried them.
And many a day, before that blessed spot
He sate, in lone and melancholy thought,
Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess'd
Of some dark secret shadowing his breast.
And yet, to see him, with his silver hair
Adrift and floating in the sea-borne air,
And features chasten'd in the tears of woe,
In sooth 'twas merely sad to see him so!
A wreck of nature, floating far and fast,
Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!
And he is wandering by the shore again,
Hard leaning on his staff; the azure main
Lies sleeping far before him, with his seas
Fast folded in the bosom of the breeze,
That like the angel Peace hath dropt his wings
Around the warring waters. Sadly sings
To his own heart that lonely hermit man,
A tale of other days, when passion ran
Along his pulses, like a troubled stream,
And glory was a splendour, and a dream!
He stoop'd to gather up a shining gem,
That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,—
It was a cross, the cross that Agathè
Had given to her Julio: the play
Of the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,
And on the glistering jewels—But the trace
Of some old thought came burning to the brain
Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain
Before the holy symbol. It was not
Because of the eternal ransom wrought
In ages far away, or he had bent
In pure devotion sad and reverent;
But now, he started, as he look'd upon
That jewell'd thing, and wildly he is gone
Back to the mossy grave, away, away:—
"My child! my child! my own, own Agathè!"
It is her father,—he,—an alter'd man!
His quiet had been wounded, and the ban
Of misery came over him, and froze
The bright and holy tides, that fell and rose
In joy amid his heart. To think of her,
That he had injured so, and all so fair,
So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,—
It was a very dismal thought, in truth,
That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,
Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!
And so he could not bear to have it be;
But sought for some lone island in the sea,
Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,
And do strange penance in his mirthless mood,
For this same crime, unnaturally wild,
That he had done unto his saintly child.
And ever he did think, when he had laid
These lovers in the grave, that, through the shade
Of ghastly features melting to decay,
He saw the image of his Agathè.
And now the truth had flash'd into his brain:
And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain,
Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;
For long ago he gave that blessed cross
To his fair girl, and knew the relic still,
By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at will
Before it, of the one that was not now,
But, like a dream, had floated from the brow
Of Time, that seeth many a lovely thing
Fade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.
The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steel
To woman's earnest tears, and bade her feel
The curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;
And saw the gladsome features growing pale
Unmoved: 'tis rent, like some eternal tower
The sea hath shaken, and its stately power
Lies lonely, fallen, scatter'd on the shore:
'Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, before
The Deluge, stood in glory and in might,
But now is lightning-riven, and the night
Is clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,
Like coffins, here and there: 'tis rent! the throne
Where passions, in their awful anarchy,
Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,
That took the being, on its troubled wings,
Far to the land of dim imaginings!
All three are dead; that desolate green isle
Is only peopled by the passing smile
Of sun and moon, that surely have a sense,
They look so radiant with intelligence,—
So like the soul's own element,—so fair!
The features of a God lie veiled there!
And mariners that have been toiling far
Upon the deep, and lost the polar star,
Have visited that island, and have seen
That lover's grave: and many there have been
That sat upon the gray and crumbling stone,
And started, as they saw a skeleton
Amid the long sad moss, that fondly grew
Through the white wasted ribs; but never knew
Of those who slept below, or of the tale
Of that brain-stricken man, that felt the pale
And wandering moonlight steal his soul away,—
Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathè!
We found them,—children of toil and tears,
Their birth of beauty shaded;
We left them in their early years
Fallen and faded.