Of some old thought came burning to the brain
Of the pale hermit, and he shrunk in pain
Before the holy symbol. It was not
Because of the eternal ransom wrought
In ages far away, or he had bent
In pure devotion, sad and reverent;
But now, he startled as he look’d upon
That jewell’d thing, and wildly he is gone
Back to the mossy grave, away, away:
“My child, my child! my own, own Agathè!”