And I could watch the sunshine, through all hours,
Loving and clinging to the grassy spot;
And I could dress its greensward with fresh flowers,
Familiar meadow-flowers. O’er thee, my babe!
The primrose will not blossom! Oh! that now,
Together, by thy fair young sister’s side,
We lay midst England’s valleys!
Husband. Dost thou grieve,
Agnes! that thou hast follow’d o’er the deep
An exile’s fortunes? If it thus can be,