He that was frantic as a foaming river—
Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide
Of a great tempest, that hath fought and died
Along the forest ramparts, and doth still
In its death-struggle desperately reel
Round with the fallen foliage—he was gone,
And none knew whither—still were chanted on
Sad masses, by pale sisters, many a day,
And holy requiem sung for Agathè!
(End of the first Chimera.)