And this was Agathè—young Agathè—
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