As I came up the valley whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not wha they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; The honeysuckle round the porch has | Last May we made a crown of flowers: wov'n its wavy bowers, And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the 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 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the And the swallow 'ill come back again Upon the chancel-casement, and upon In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill 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, When from the dry dark wold the sum- 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 I shall not forget you, mother, I shall I have been wild and wayward, but you'll You 'll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let | And sweet is all the land abcut, and all your grief be wild, the flowers that blow, You should not fret for me, mother, you And sweeter far is death than life to me have another child. If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night 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 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 parlor-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 New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. 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 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, 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. O blessings on his kindly voice and on And O A his silver hair! blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! thousand times I blest him, as he He taught me all the mercy, for he 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 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 And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, 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 | To lie within the light of God, as 1 lie in my bed, And then did something speak to me- 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." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If had lived - I cannot tell- I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shineWild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and trueAnd what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come upon your breast And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. |