Of morning—and she was not! Some have thought
The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught
That stole into her heart, and sadly rent
The fine chords of that holy instrument,
Until its music falter’d fast away,
And she—she died—the lovely Agathè!
Again, and through the arras of the gloom
Are the pale breezes moaning: by her tomb
Bends Julio, like a phantom, and his eye
Is fallen, as the moon-borne tides, that lie