Cradled in a nest of flowers,
Sheltered by the birchen bowers
That clustered round the spot,
Waving their pensile, slender arms,
Shedding a thousand fragrant charms
Around our lowly cot.
How oft in balmy breathing June,
When woodland choirs were full in tune,
I wandered by the stream
That poured, in gushing liquid tones,
Its silvery music o'er the stones:
O happy, happy dream!
And see, while peals of laughter wild
Ring through the wood, a happy child
Comes plashing down the stream;
Another, and another see-
Four girlish butterflies were we-
Sporting in life's young dream.
Too soon awake, alas! we found
That it was but enchanted ground
On which we danced along,
With flowing hair and bounding feet,
With frolic, glee, and laughter sweet,
And childhood's careless song.
Dear Agnes, very fair and pale
Was she. How shall I tell the tale?
Within a lonesome place
They found her lifeless on the ground,
Near where a woodland streamlet wound,
That rippled o'er her face.
Sweet Mary, with the ringlets fair,
And Helen of the raven hair,
Where now-oh! where are ye?
Ye crossed the wild Atlantic wave;
Yet still to know, my heart would crave,
If ye remember me.
And I, I wait upon the shore,
That whoso leaves returns no more;
I long to reach my Home,
Where those not lost, but gone before,
Shall meet on that celestial shore
Where death nor sorrows come.