His arms now are folded, he bows as in sorrow, His tears trickle fast, down his wedding-suit gay; “My AGNES will bless me,” he murmurs, “to-morrow, “As fresh as the breezes that welcome the day!” Poor Youth! know thy AGNES, so lovely and blooming, Stern Death has embrac’d, all her beauties entombing! And, pale as her shroud in the grave she reposes, Her bosom of snow, all besprinkled with Roses! Her Cottage is now in the dark dell decaying, And shatter’d the casements, and clos’d is the door, And the nettle now waves, where the wild KID is playing, And the neat little garden with weeds is grown o’er! The Owl builds its nest in the thatch, and there, shrieking, (A place all deserted and lonely bespeaking) Salutes the night traveller, wandering near it, And makes his faint heart, sicken sadly to hear it. Then Youth, for thy habit, henceforth, thou should’st borrow The Raven’s dark colour, and mourn for thy dear: Thy AGNES for thee, would have cherish’d her Sorrow, And drest her pale cheek with a lingering tear: For, soon as thy steps to the Battle departed, She droop’d, and poor Maiden! she died, broken hearted; And the turf that is bound with fresh garlands of roses, Is now the cold bed, where her sorrow reposes! The gay and the giddy may revel in pleasure,— May think themselves happy, their short summer-day; May gaze, with fond transport, on fortune’s rich treasure, And, carelessly sporting,—drive sorrow away: But the bosom, where feeling and truth are united— From folly’s bright tinsel will turn, undelighted— And find, at the grave where thy AGNES is sleeping, That the proudest of hours, is the lone hour of weeping! The Youth now approach’d the long branch of the willow, And stripping its leaves, on the turf threw them round. “Here, here, my sweet AGNES! I make my last pillow, “My bed of long slumber, shall be the cold ground! “The Sun, when it rises above thy low dwelling, “Shall gild the tall Spire, where my death-toll is knelling. “And when the next twilight its soft tears is shedding, “At thy Grave shall the Villagers—witness _our_ WEDDING! Now over the Hills he beheld a group coming, Their arms glitter’d bright, as the Sun slowly rose; He heard them their purposes, far distant, humming, And welcom’d the moment, that ended his woes!— And now the fierce Comrade, unfeeling, espies him, He darts thro’ the thicket, in hopes to surprize him; But EDMUND, of Valour the dauntless defender, Now _smiles_, while his CORPORAL bids him—“SURRENDER!”