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A name his country once forsook,
But now with joy inherits,
And martyr in the Spirit's!
In peaceful faith persisting,
To conquer unresisting,
Ji. M. Milnes
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad newyear.
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 the blackthorn, the leaf upon the
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 maypole, and in the hazel
copse, Till Charles's wain came out above the tall white
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 '11 caw from the windy tall elmtree,
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow '11 come back again with Summer o'er the wave,
But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave
of mine, In the early early morning the Summer sun '11
shine, Before the red cock 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 grey fields at
night; When from the dry dark wold the Summer airs
blow cool On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the
bulrush in the pool.
You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.
I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass,
With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive
me now; You'll kiss me, my own mother, on my cheek and
on my brow. Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be
wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have
If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my
resting-place; Though you'll 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 you, when you think I'm
Good-night, good-night, when I have said, Goodnight for evermore,
And you 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 I have ever 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.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad newyear,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
I thought to pass 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
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
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.
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
He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all
the sin; Now, though 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 pass to Him that died for