The Death-Wake | Page 7

image of cold calm! One tress of hair?Lingereth lonely on her snowy brow;?But the bright eyes are closed in darkness now;?And their long lashes delicately rest?On the pale cheek, like sun-rays in the west,?That fall upon a colourless, sad cloud.?Humility lies rudely on the proud,?But she was never proud; and there she is,?A yet unwither'd flower the autumn breeze?Hath blown from its green stem! 'T is pale, 't is pale, But still unfaded, like the twilight veil?That falleth after sunset; like a stream?That bears the burden of a silver gleam?Upon its waters; and is even so,--?Chill, melancholy, lustreless, and low!
Beauty in death! a tenderness upon?The rude and silent relics, where alone?Sat the destroyer! Beauty on the dead!?The look of being where the breath is fled!?The unwarming sun still joyous in its light!?A time--a time without a day or night!?Death cradled upon Beauty, like a bee?Upon a flower, that looketh lovingly!--?Like a wild serpent, coiling in its madness,?Under a wreath of blossom and of gladness!
And there she is; and Julio bends o'er?The sleeping girl,--a willow on the shore?Of a Dead Sea! that steepeth its far bough?Into the bitter waters,--even now?Taking a foretaste of the awful trance?That was to pass on his own countenance!
Yes! yes! and he is holding his pale lips?Over her brow; the shade of an eclipse?Is passing to his heart, and to his eye,?That is not tearful; but the light will die,?Leaving it like a moon within a mist,--?The vision of a spell-bound visionist!
He breathed a cold kiss on her ashy cheek,?That left no trace--no flush--no crimson streak,?But was as bloodless as a marble stone,?Susceptible of silent waste alone.?And on her brow a crucifix he laid--?A jewel'd crucifix, the virgin maid?Had given him before she died. The moon?Shed light upon her visage--clouded soon,?Then briefly breaking from its airy veil,?Like warrior lifting up his aventayle.
But Julio gazed on, and never lifted?Himself to see the broken clouds, that drifted?One after one, like infant elves at play?Amid the night-winds, in their lonely way--?Some whistling and some moaning, some asleep,?And dreaming dismal dreams, and sighing deep?Over their couches of green moss and flowers,?And solitary fern, and heather bowers.
The heavy bell toll'd two, and, as it toll'd,?Julio started, and the fresh-turn'd mould?He flung into the empty chasm with speed,?And o'er it dropt the flagstone. One could read?That Agathè lay there; but still the girl?Lay by him, like a precious and pale pearl,?That from the deep sea-waters had been rent--?Like a star fallen from the firmament!?He hides the grave-tools in an aged porch,?To westward of the solitary church;?And he hath clasp'd around the melting waist?The beautiful, dead girl: his cheek is press'd?To hers--Life warming the cold chill of Death!?And over his pale palsy breathing breath?His eye is sunk upon her--"Thou must leave?The worm to waste for love of thee, and grieve?Without thee, as I may not. Thou must go,?My sweet betrothed, with me--but not below,?Where there is darkness, dream, and solitude,?But where is light, and life, and one to brood?Above thee till thou wakest--Ha! I fear?Thou wilt not wake for ever, sleeping here,?Where there are none but winds to visit thee,?And convent fathers, and a choristry?Of sisters, saying, 'Hush!'--But I will sing?Rare songs to thy pure spirit, wandering?Down on the dews to hear me; I will tune?The instrument of the ethereal moon,?And all the choir of stars, to rise and fall?In harmony and beauty musical."
He is away--and still the sickly lamp?Is burning next the altar; there's a damp,?Thin mould upon the pavement; and, at morn,?The monks do cross them in their blessed scorn?And mutter deep anathemas, because?Of the unholy sacrilege, that was?Within the sainted chapel,--for they guess'd,?By many a vestige sad, how the dark rest?Of Agathè was broken,--and anon?They sought for Julio. The summer sun?Arose and and set, with his imperial disc?Toward the ocean-waters, heaving brisk?Before the winds,--but Julio came never:?He that was frantic as a foaming river--?Mad as the fall of leaves upon the tide?Of a great tempest, that have 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 requiems sung for Agathè!
CHIMERA II
A curse! a curse! the beautiful pale wing?Of a sea-bird was worn with wandering,?And, on a sunny rock beside the shore,?It stood, the golden waters gazing o'er;?And they were heaving a brown amber flow?Of weeds, that glitter'd gloriously below.
It was the sunset, and the gorgeous hall?Of heaven rose up on pillars magical?Of living silver, shafting the fair sky?Between dark time and great eternity.?They rose upon their pedestal of sun,?A line of snowy columns! and anon?Were lost in the rich tracery of cloud?That hung along, magnificently proud,?Predicting the pure star-light, that beyond?The east was armouring in diamond?About the camp of twilight, and was soon?To marshal under the