The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 38

NEW-YEAR'S EVE

If you're waking call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.

It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on [1] the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.

Last May we made a crown of flowers: we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.

There's not a flower on all the hills: the frost is on the pane: I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.

The building rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave.

But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.

Upon the chancel-cas.e.m.e.nt, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun'll s.h.i.+ne, Before the red c.o.c.k crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.

When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-gra.s.s and the sword-gra.s.s, and the bulrush in the pool.

You'll bury me, [2] my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you'll come [3] sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pa.s.s,[4]

With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant gra.s.s.

I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive [5] me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; [6]

Nay, nay, you must not weep, [7] nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you [8] have another child.

If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you'll [9] not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, 1 shall harken what you [10] say, And be often, often with you when you think [11] I'm far away.

Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night for evermore, And you [12] see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.

She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor: Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.

Good-night, sweet mother: call me before the day is born. [13]

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if your waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.

[Footnote 1: 1833. The may upon.]

[Footnote 2: 1833. Ye'll bury me.]

[Footnote 3: 1833. And ye'll come.]

[Footnote 4: 1833. I shall not forget ye, mother, I shall hear ye when ye pa.s.s.]

[Footnote 5: 1833. But ye'll forgive.]

[Footnote 6: 1833. Ye'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow.

1850. And foregive me ere I go.]

[Footnote 7: 1833. Ye must not weep.]

[Footnote 8: 1833. Ye ... ye.]

[Footnote 9: 1833. Ye'll.]

[Footnote 10: 1833. Ye.]

[Footnote 11: 1833. Ye when ye think.]

[Footnote 12: 1833. Ye.]

[Footnote 13: 1833. Call me when it begins to dawn. 1842. Before the day is born.]

CONCLUSION

Added in 1842.

I thought to pa.s.s away before, and yet alive I am; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb.

How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!

To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.

O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies, And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow, And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.

It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will be done!

But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. [1]

O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair!

And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!

O blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!

A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.

He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd [2] me all the sin.

Now, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in: Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be, For my desire is but to pa.s.s to Him that died for me.

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet: But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.

I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me--I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind.

But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them: it's mine".