Agnes.
Lo, the robe, the veil that clad
At the font my little lad.
Under it his cloak I've laid—
[Holds it up, gazes at it, and laughs.]
Lord, how brave it looks and bright!
Ah, he was a bonny sight
In his festal robes array'd!
Here's the scarf, the cape he wore
When the keen wind first he bore;
Longer was it than was meet
Then, but quickly grew too spare—
I will lay it with them there.
Gloves and stockings—(Oh, what feet!)
And his hood of silken fold
That had fenced him from the cold,
All unused and clean and sweet.
Oh, and there the wrappings warm
That should shield his little form
For the journey, from the storm
When again I laid them by,
Weary unto death was I!
Brand.
[Clasps his hands in anguish.]
Mercy, God! I strive in vain!
Shatter her last idol-shrine
By some other hand than mine!
Agnes.
Did I weep? Behold, a stain!
Oh, my treasure! Jewell'd prize,
Bath'd in floods from aching eyes,
Lit with fires of tortured Will,
Holy Crowning-vesture, worn
