164 ALFRED TENNYSON. 



I shall not forget ye, Mother, I shall hear ye when ye pass^ 

 With your feet above my head in the lon«; and pleasant grass. 



I have been wild and wayward, but ye '11 forgive me now, 

 Ye '11 kiss me my own mother upon my cheek and brow; 

 Nay, nay, ye must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 

 Ye should not fret for me mother, ye have another child. 



If I can I '11 come again, Mother, from out my resting place, 

 Though ye '11 not see me. Mother, I shall look upon your face; 

 Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, 

 And be often — often with ye, when ye think I 'm far away. 

 Good night, good night, — when I 've said good night for ever- 

 more, 

 And ye see me carried out from the threshold of tiie door. 

 Do n't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green, 

 She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. 



She '11 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 tiie rose-bush that I set 

 About tlie parlour window, and the box of mignionetle. 



Good night, sweet mother, call me, when it begins to dawn, 

 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 you 're waking call me, call me early, mother dear. 



We cannot praise too highly the combined beauty 

 and simplicity of these exquisite lines. They are 

 full of a heavenly mildness, and a sweet, unassuming 

 sadness. An amiable girl, in the prime of iier youth, 

 has a near prospect of death ; she awaits the tyrant's 

 stroke with calmness and composure. A few brief 

 month's ago, she had been elected queen of May : 

 she had led the sportive dance on the emerald plain, 

 in all the vigour of health and beauty. The autumn 

 advanced — rich, indeed, in fruits, but pregnant with 

 decay. The leaves of the forest are yellow and sere : 

 the flowers have ceased to bloom : the human race 

 is not suffered to escape ; and the slow, but wither- 

 ing, hand of consumption arrests the pride of the 

 village, and changes the rosy tint of health to the 

 ])allid hue of sickness ! Winter arrives, and the 



