That belt of pines is dearer to his heart,
Than all the busy interests of life;
Since, on that festal morn, he saw the dart
Of heaven descending on his plighted wife.
No axe comes there; the trees extend their shade;
His loving sorrow interdicts their fall,
And warns the woodman from the holy glade;
The death of Agnes has redeem'd them all!
Yon small white gate, deep-set in living green,
Through which she pass'd,—alas! without return,—
Though distant, oft in sunny gleams is seen;
Or when, before the rain, the sacred grove
Comes looming up, surcharged with death and love,
And bids the little gate stand forth and mourn!