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 moon rose, and still he linger’d still.
And the next vesper toll’d; nor yet, nor yet—
“Can Agathè be faithless and forget?”
It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
“Poor Julio! thy Agathè is dead;”
And started. He had loiter’d in the train
That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain