The Fir-Grove

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 pierced 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.