The Early Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson Part 45

[Footnote 4: 1842. Not hearing thee at all. Altered, 1843.]

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR

First printed in 1833.

Only one alteration has been made in this poem, in line 41, where in 1842 "one' was altered to" twelve ".

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move: He will not see the dawn of day.

He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his b.u.mpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see.

But tho' his eyes are waxing dim, And tho' his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er.

To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing c.o.c.k.

The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps: the light burns low: 'Tis nearly twelve [1] o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.

Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

[Footnote 1: 1833. One.]

TO J. S.

First published in 1833.

This beautiful poem was addressed to James Spedding on the death of his brother Edward.

The wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, [1]

And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow [2]

In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe.

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first.

G.o.d gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

This is the curse of time. Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pa.s.s; [3]

One went, who never hath return'd.

He will not smile--nor speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold [4] and just Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep.

Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, [5]

I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain".

Let Grief be her own mistress still.

She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done--to weep or not to weep.

I will not say "G.o.d's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind"; For that is not a common chance That takes away a n.o.ble mind.

His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, [6]

And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters [7] as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth, How _should_ I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth?

Yet something I did wish to say:

For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only [8] silence suiteth best.

Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take [9]

The place of him that sleeps in peace.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.

Nothing comes to thee new or strange.