The Death-Wake | Page 7

Again he went
To his wild work, beside the monument.
"Ha! leave,
thou moon! where thy footfall hath been
In sorrow amid heaven!
there is sin
Under thy shadow, lying like a dew;
So come thou,
from thy awful arch of blue,
Where thou art even as a silver throne

For some pale spectre-king; come thou alone,
Or bring a solitary
orphan star
Under thy wings! afar, afar, afar,
To gaze upon this girl
of radiancy,
In her deep slumbers--Wake thee, Agathè!"
And Julio hath stolen the dark chest
Where the fair nun lay coffin'd,

in the rest
That wakes not up at morning: she is there,
An 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