AGNES. PART FIRST. THE KNIGHT. THE tale I tell is gospel true, And pilgrims who have strayed to view That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue, To maids with downcast eyes. Ah! maidens err and matrons warn Beneath the coldest sky; Love lurks amid the tasselled corn As in the bearded rye! But who would dream our sober sires Had learned the old world's ways, And warmed their hearths with lawless fires In Shirley's homespun days? 'Tis like some poet's pictured trance His idle rhymes recite, This old New-England-born romance Of Agnes and the Knight; Yet, known to all the country round, One hour we rumble on the rail, One half-hour guide the rein, We reach at last, o'er hill and dale, The village on the plain. With blackening wall and mossy roof, A stately mansion stands aloof And bars its haughty door. This lowlier portal may be tried, "T was in the second George's day They piled the rock-hewn chimney tall, They smoothed the terraced ground, They reared the marble-pillared wall That fenced the mansion round. Far stretched beyond the village bound The Master's broad domain; With page and valet, horse and hound, He kept a goodly train. And, all the midland county through, The ploughman stopped to gaze Whene'er his chariot swept in view Behind the shining bays, |