Agnes the Indian Captive. A Poem, in Four Cantos. With Other Poems. By the Rev. John Mitford |
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| IV. | IV.
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 | Agnes |  |
193
IV.
[Come, lady, let us roam the beechen bowers]
Come, lady, let us roam the beechen bowers,And though their locks be shatter'd now and sere,
Yet the last smile of the departing year
We'll share, ere winter bring his lonely hours.
And now when eve shuts up the drooping flowers,
With curious hand the pencil thou wilt seize;
Or if the lute's soft warbling more may please,
So best to wing away the autumnal hours.
But how shall I those pleasant times recal,
When far from thee my wandering feet shall stray,
Can I forget that thou to me art all,
All that I love; my hope, my joy, my stay?
Oh! heavily the hand of grief will fall
On me, when dwelling lone and far away.
| Agnes | |