"Not so," the matron whispered,

No orphan girl is she,

The Surraige folk are deadly poor

Since Edward left the sea,

"sure

"And Mary, with her growing brood,
Has work enough to do

To find the children clothes and food
With Thomas, John, and Hugh.

"This girl of Mary's, growing tall,(Just turned her sixteenth year,) – To earn her bread and help them all, Would work as housemaid here."

So Agnes, with her golden beads,
And naught beside as dower,
Grew at the wayside with the weeds,

Herself a garden-flower.

'T was strange, 't was sad, - so fresh, so fair!

Thus Pity's voice began.

Such grace! an angel's shape and air!

The half-heard whisper ran.

For eyes could see in George's time,

As now in later days,

And lips could shape, in prose and rhyme,
The honeyed breath of praise.

No time to woo! The train must go
Long ere the sun is down,

To reach, before the night-winds blow,
The many-steepled town.

Dark roll the whispering waves

That lap the piers beneath the hill

Ridged thick with ancient graves.

Ah, gentle sleep! thy hand will smooth
The weary couch of pain,
When all thy poppies fail to soothe
The lover's throbbing brain!

'Tis morn, the orange-mantled sun Breaks through the fading gray, And long and loud the Castle gun

Peals o'er the glistening bay.

"Thank God 't is day!"

With eager eye

He hails the morning's shine:

"If art can win, or gold can buy,

The maiden shall be mine!"

PART THIRD.

THE CONQUEST.

"WHO saw this hussy when she came? What is the wench, and who?"

They whisper. "Agnes, is her name?

Pray what has she to do?"

The housemaids parley at the gate,

The scullions on the stair,

And in the footmen's grave debate
The butler deigns to share.

Black Dinah, stolen when a child,

And sold on Boston pier,

Grown up in service, petted, spoiled,

Speaks in the coachman's ear:

"What, all this household at his will?

And all are yet too few?

More servants, and more servants still,This pert young madam too!"

"Servant! fine servant!" laughed aloud The man of coach and steeds; "She looks too fair, she steps too proud, This girl with golden beads!

"I tell you, you may fret and frown,
And call her what you choose,
You'll find my Lady in her gown,
Your Mistress in her shoes!"

Ah, gentle maidens, free from blame,
God grant you never know

The little whisper, loud with shame,
That makes the world your foe!

Why tell the lordly flatterer's art,
That won the maiden's ear,

The fluttering of the frightened heart,
The blush, the smile, the tear?

Alas! it were the saddening tale
That every language knows,-
The wooing wind, the yielding sail,
The sunbeam and the rose.

And now the gown of sober stuff

Has changed to fair brocade,

With broidered hem, and hanging cuff,

And flower of silken braid;

And clasped around her blanching wrist

A jewelled bracelet shines,
Her flowing tresses' massive twist

A glittering net confines;

And mingling with their truant wave

A fretted chain is hung;

But ah! the gift her mother gave,

Its beads are all unstrung!

Her place is at the master's board,
Where none disputes her claim;

She walks beside the mansion's lord,
His bride in all but name.