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 cock.
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.]
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.
God 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 pass; [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”.
