Again the ripening crops begin to shine Near the dark firs, where Agnes dropp'd and died, Struck in a moment from her lover's side, At that gay banquet, with its songs and wine; Well he remembers how the thunder broke After the flash, that pierc'd their festal bower, Where she lay prostrate in her hood and cloak, Drawn round her, just to fend a summer-shower; Well he remembers, later in the year, How, when the pine-grove rang with questing hounds, His soul reverted to those social sounds, Dear Friendship's voice, and Love's, more wildly dear, And how the Hunt seem'd like a drunken brawl Crossing the silence of a funeral. |