AGATHA.
BY L. E. L.
A tale of patient sorrow, and of faith,
Which taught that patience.
An ancient chamber in a castle old:
The oaken wainscoting is black with age;
The tapestry, worked with Scripture histories,
Has lost its colours; and the books that fill
Those carved arches, show both care and time.
And yet the room is cheerful—for the sun
Looks through the casements, where bright flowers are placed
In graceful order; and the cultured plant
Bears ever witness to a calm delight
Shed o'er the hours of such as nurse its bloom.
Two lean beside the window: one whose brow
Bears evidence of many a chastened grief,
For it is sad but calm—her cheek is pale,
And touching in its beauty—'tis so meek,
So kind, with light that suits an angel's face
Who dreams of heaven. By her side is one
