They seek his Northern home,--alas He goes alone before;-- His own dear Agnes may not pass The proud, ancestral door. He stood before the stately dame; He spoke; she calmly heard, But not to pity, nor to blame; She breathed no single word. He told his love,--her faith betrayed; She heard with tearless eyes; Could she forgive the erring maid? She stared in cold surprise. How fond her heart, he told,--how true; The haughty eyelids fell;-- The kindly deeds she loved to do; She murmured, "It is well." But when he told that fearful day, And how her feet were led To where entombed in life he lay, The breathing with the dead, And how she bruised her tender breasts Against the crushing stone, That still the strong-armed clown protests No man can lift alone,-- Oh! then the frozen spring was broke; By turns she wept and smiled;-- "Sweet Agnes!" so the mother spoke, "God bless my angel child. "She saved thee from the jaws of death,-- 'T is thine to right her wrongs; I tell thee,--I, who gave thee breath,-- To her thy life belongs!" Thus Agnes won her noble name, Her lawless lover's hand; The lowly maiden so became A lady in the land! PART SIXTH CONCLUSION The tale is done; it little needs To track their after ways, And string again the golden beads Of love's uncounted days. They leave the fair ancestral isle For bleak New England's shore; How gracious is the courtly smile Of all who frowned before! Again through Lisbon's orange bowers They watch the river's gleam, And shudder as her shadowy towers Shake in the trembling stream. Fate parts at length the fondest pair; His cheek, alas! grows pale; The breast that trampling death could spare His noiseless shafts assail. He longs to change the heaven of blue For England's clouded sky,-- To breathe the air his boyhood knew; He seeks then but to die. Hard by the terraced hillside town, Where healing streamlets run, Still sparkling with their old renown,-- The "Waters of the Sun,"-- The Lady Agnes raised the stone That marks his honored grave, And there Sir Harry sleeps alone By Wiltshire Avon's wave. The home of early love was dear; She sought its peaceful shade, And kept her state for many a year, With none to make afraid. At last the evil days were come That saw the red cross fall; She hears the rebels' rattling drum,-- Farewell to Frankland Hall! I tell you, as my tale began, The hall is standing still; And you, kind listener, maid or man, May see it if you will. The box is glistening huge and green, Like trees the lilacs grow, Three elms high-arching still are seen, And one lies stretched below. The hangings, rough with velvet flowers, Flap on the latticed wall; And o'er the mossy ridge-pole towers The rock-hewn chimney tall. The doors on mighty hinges clash With massive bolt and bar, The heavy English-moulded sash Scarce can the night-winds jar. Behold the chosen room he sought Alone, to fast and pray, Each year, as chill November brought The dismal earthquake day.