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,