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,