That lieth in her grave. When wilt thou cease
To feed upon my quiet, thou Despair,
That art the mad usurper, and the heir
Of this heart’s heritage? Go, go—return,
And bring me back oblivion and an urn!
And ye, pale stars, may look, and only find
The wreck of a proud tree, that lets the wind
Count o’er its blighted boughs: for such was he
That loved, and loves, the silent Agathè.”
And he hath left the sanctuary, like one