night,
And neither spake awhile--A pure delight
Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently
Gazed Julio on the gentle Agathe--
At length, "Fair Nun!"--She started, and held fast
Her bright hand on her lip--"the past, the past,
And the pale future! There be some that lie
Under those marble urns--I know not why,
But I were better in that only calm,
Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am.
The past!--ay! it hath perish'd; never, never,
Would I recall it to be blest for ever:
The future it must come--I have a vow"--
And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow.
"True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon
Abroad, fair Nun?"--"Indeed! so very soon?"
Said Agathe, and "I must then away."--
"Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!"
But she was gone:--yet they met many a time
In the lone chapel, after vesper chime--
They met in love and fear.

One weary day,
And Julio saw not his loved Agathe;
She was not in the choir of sisterhood
That sang the evening anthem, and he stood
Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile;
But stranger voices chanted through the aisle.
She was not there; and, after all were gone,
He linger'd: the stars came--he linger'd on,
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 morn rose, and still, he linger'd still.
And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet--
"Can Agathe be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said,
"Poor Julio! thy Agathe is dead,"
And started. He had loiter'd in the train
That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain
In the cold earth, and heard a requiem
Sung over her--To him it was a dream!
A marble stone stood by the sepulchre;
He look'd, and saw, and started--she was there!
And Agathe had died; she that was bright--
She that was in her beauty! a cold blight
Fell over the young blossom of her brow.
And the life-blood grew chill--She is not, now.

She died, like zephyr falling amid flowers!
Like to a star within the twilight hours
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 fa