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,