The Invasion

Spring, they say, with his greenery
    Northward marches at last,
        Mustering thorn and elm;
Breezes rumour him conquering,
    Tell how Victory sits
        High on his glancing helm.

Smit with sting of his archery,
    Hardest ashes and oaks
        Burn at the root below:
Primrose, violet, daffodil,
    Start like blood where the shafts
        Light from his golden bow.

Here where winter oppresses us
    Still we listen and doubt,
        Dreading a hope betrayed:
Sore we long to be greeting him,
    Still we linger and doubt
        "What if his march be stayed?"

Folk in thrall to the enemy,
    Vanquished, tilling a soil
        Hateful and hostile grown;
Always wearily, warily,
    Feeding deep in the heart
        Passion they dare not own---

So we wait the deliverer;
    Surely soon shall he come,
        Soon shall his hour be due:
Spring shall come with his greenery,
    Life be lovely again,
        Earth be the home we knew.

Henry John Newbolt

Sir Henry John Newbolt was an English poet and author, famous for his ballads such as 'Vitaï Lampada'. He graduated from Oxford and was called to the bar, but he is better remembered for his literary contributions than his legal career. Newbolt served as a government advisor on military and naval literature during World War I. He was knighted in 1915 for his services to literature. Newbolt's work often reflected themes of patriotism and duty.

Henry John Newbolt

Vitaï Lampada

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Final Mystery

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Building Of The Temple

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

The Presentation

Henry John Newbolt, Simple Poetry

English

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The Adventurers

    Over the downs in sunlight clear
    Forth we went in the spring of the year:
    Plunder of April's gold we sought,
    Little of April's anger thought.

    Caught in a copse without defence
    Low we crouched to the rain-squall dense:
    Sure, if misery man can vex,
    There it beat on our bended necks.

    Yet when again we wander on
    Suddenly all that gloom is gone:
    Under and over through the wood,
    Life is astir, and life is good.

    Violets purple, violets white,
    Delicate windflowers dancing light,
    Primrose, mercury, moscatel,
    Shimmer in diamonds round the dell.

    Squirrel is climbing swift and lithe,
    Chiff-chaff whetting his airy scythe,
    Woodpecker whirrs his rattling rap,
  ...

Henry John Newbolt

Anticipation, October 1803

Shout, for a mighty Victory is won!
On British ground the Invaders are laid low;
The breath of Heaven has drifted them like snow,
And left them lying in the silent sun,
Never to rise again! the work is done.
Come forth, ye old men, now in peaceful show
And greet your sons! drums beat and trumpets blow!
Make merry, wives! ye little children, stun
Your grandame's ears with pleasure of your noise!
Clap, infants, clap your hands! Divine must be
That triumph, when the very worst, the pain,
And even the prospect of our brethren slain,
Hath something in it which the heart enjoys:
In glory will they sleep and endless sanctity.

William Wordsworth

The Progress Of Spring

The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,
Fair Spring slides hither o'er the Southern sea,
Wavers on her thin stem the snowdrop cold
That trembles not to kisses of the bee:
Come Spring, for now from all the dripping eaves
The spear of ice has wept itself away,
And hour by hour unfolding woodbine leaves
O'er his uncertain shadow droops the day.
She comes! The loosen'd rivulets run;
The frost-bead melts upon her golden hair;
Her mantle, slowly greening in the Sun,
Now wraps her close, now arching leaves her bar
To breaths of balmier air;

Up leaps the lark, gone wild to welcome her,
About her glance the tits, and shriek the jays,
Before her skims the jubilant woodpecker,
The linnet's bosom blushes at her gaze,
While round her brows a woodland cul...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Spring Has Come

Intra Muros

The sunbeams, lost for half a year,
Slant through my pane their morning rays;
For dry northwesters cold and clear,
The east blows in its thin blue haze.

And first the snowdrop's bells are seen,
Then close against the sheltering wall
The tulip's horn of dusky green,
The peony's dark unfolding ball.

The golden-chaliced crocus burns;
The long narcissus-blades appear;
The cone-beaked hyacinth returns
To light her blue-flamed chandelier.

The willow's whistling lashes, wrung
By the wild winds of gusty March,
With sallow leaflets lightly strung,
Are swaying by the tufted larch.

The elms have robed their slender spray
With full-blown flower and embryo leaf;
Wide o'er the clasping arch of day
Soars like a cl...

Oliver Wendell Holmes

September, 1815

While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

William Wordsworth

Presage Of Victory

I


Then first I knew, seeing that bent grey head,
How England honours all her thousand dead.
Then first I knew how faith through black grief burns,
Until the ruined heart glows while it yearns
For one that never more returns--
Glows in the spent embers of its pride
For one that careless lived and fearless died.
And then I knew, then first,
How everywhere Hope from her prison had burst--
On every hill, wide dale, soft valley's lap,
In lonely cottage clutch'd between huge downs,
And streets confused with streets in clanging towns--
Like spring from winter's jail pouring her sap
Into the idle wood of last year's trees.
Then first I knew how the vast world-disease
Would die away, and England upon her seas
Shake every scab of sickness; toward new sk...

John Frederick Freeman