The Death-Wake | Page 5

sad, unfriended orphan, that had gone?Into the world, to murmur and to die,?Like the cold breezes that are passing by!
And few they were that bade him to their board;?His fortunes now were over, and the sword?Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd--left?To moulder in its sheath--a hated gift!
Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain?Have been a warrior; but his very brain?Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death,?And to be stricken with a want of breath!--?To be the food of worms--inanimate,?And cold as winter,--and as desolate!?And then to waste away, and be no more?Than the dark dust!--The thought was like a sore?That gather'd in his heart; and he would say,--?"A curse be on their laurels!" and decay?Came over them; the deeds that they had done?Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon?Was Julio forgotten, and his line--?No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!
Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene!?But loved not death: his purpose was between?Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there,?Like a wild bird that floated far and fair?Betwixt the sun and sea!
He went, and came,?And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same,--?A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night?Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight?Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind?Play with his raven tresses, or would bind?Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing:?And peasant girls would find him sauntering,?To gaze upon their features, as they met,?In laughter, under some green arboret.
At last, he became monk, and, on his knees,?Said holy prayers, and with wild penances?Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim,?That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him,?Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed?With none of the mad thoughts that were at first?The poison of his quiet; but he grew?To love the world and its wild laughter too,?As he had known before; and wish'd again?To join the very mirth he hated then!
He durst not break the vow--he durst not be?The one he would--and his heart's harmony?Became a tide of sorrow. Even so,?He felt hope die,--in madness and in woe!?But there came one--and a most lovely one?As ever to the warm light of the sun?Threw back her tresses,--a fair sister girl,?With a brow changing between snow and pearl,?And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew?Of tears,--like Heaven's own melancholy blue,--?So beautiful, so tender; and her form?Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm,?Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow--?Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow?Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright?In her own self,--a mystery of light!?With feelings tender as a star's own hue,?Pure as the morning star! as true, as true;?For it will glitter in each early sky,?And her first love be love that lasteth aye!
And this was Agathè, young Agathè,?A motherless, fair girl: and many a day?She wept for her lost parent. It was sad?To see her infant sorrow; how she bade?The flow of her wild spirits fall away?To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day?Melting into a shower: and it was sad?Almost to think she might again be glad,?Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall?Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall,?She had lived almost sorrowless her days:?But he felt no affection for the gaze?Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled,?He bade no father's welcome to the child,?But even told his wish, and will'd it done,?For her to be sad-hearted--and a nun!
And so it was. She took the dreary veil,?A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale?Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels?The winds of autumn and the winter chills,?That darken his fair suns.--It was away,?Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agathè!
The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn?Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim,?Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread,?As of one musing sadly on the dead--?'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be?Often alone within the sanctuary;?But now, not so--another: it was she!?Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint?Before a crucifix; but sad and faint?The tone of her devotion, as the trill?Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.
And Julio stood before her;--'twas as yet?The hour of the pale twilight--and they met?Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue?Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw?Her veil above her features, and stole by?Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!
Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone,?A dreamer!--"Is the sister ladye gone?"?He started at the silence of the air?That slumber'd over him--she is not there.
And either slept not through the live-long night,?Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright,?Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose?In sorrow from the pallet of repose;?For the dark thought of their sad destiny?Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea,?That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve?They met again, but, silent, took