861.

AGNES

The story of Sir Harry Frankland and Agnes Surriage is told in the
ballad with a very strict adhesion to the facts. These were obtained
from information afforded me by the Rev. Mr. Webster, of Hopkinton, in
company with whom I visited the Frankland Mansion in that town, then
standing; from a very interesting Memoir, by the Rev. Elias Nason, of
Medford; and from the manuscript diary of Sir Harry, or more properly
Sir Charles Henry Frankland, now in the library of the Massachusetts
Historical Society.

At the time of the visit referred to, old Julia was living, and on our
return we called at the house where she resided.--[She was living June
10, 1861, when this ballad was published]--Her account is little more
than paraphrased in the poem. If the incidents are treated with a
certain liberality at the close of the fifth part, the essential fact
that Agnes rescued Sir Harry from the ruins after the earthquake, and
their subsequent marriage as related, may be accepted as literal truth.
So with regard to most of the trifling details which are given; they are
taken from the record. It is greatly to be regretted that the Frankland
Mansion no longer exists. It was accidentally burned on the 23d of
January, 1858, a year or two after the first sketch of this ballad was
written. A visit to it was like stepping out of the century into the
years before the Revolution. A new house, similar in plan and
arrangements to the old one, has been built upon its site, and the
terraces, the clump of box, and the lilacs doubtless remain to bear
witness to the truth of this story.

The story, which I have told literally in rhyme, has been made
the subject of a carefully studied and interesting romance by Mr.
E. L. Bynner.

PART FIRST

THE KNIGHT

THE tale I tell is gospel true,
As all the bookmen know,
And pilgrims who have strayed to view
The wrecks still left to show.

The old, old story,--fair, and young,
And fond,--and not too wise,--
That matrons tell, with sharpened tongue,
To maids with downcast eyes.

Ah! maidens err and matrons warn
Beneath the coldest sky;
Love lurks amid the tasselled corn
As in the bearded rye!

But who would dream our sober sires
Had learned the old world's ways,
And warmed their hearths with lawless fires
In Shirley's homespun days?

'T is like some poet's pictured trance
His idle rhymes recite,--
This old New England-born romance
Of Agnes and the