The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince Edited by R. A. Douglas Lithgow |
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A SONG FOR MARCH. |
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 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
5
A SONG FOR MARCH.
Burly March rushes in with a boisterous wing,—
Give him welcome, though brawler he be;
He is here to announce that the beautiful Spring
Re-appears on the forest and lea.
The blithe lark is aware, for his earliest song,
As he flutters the breeze-broken cloudlets among,
Cometh down like melodious rain;
The thrush startles Echo with jovial voice,
And a thousand glad throats, that were made to rejoice,
Will soon tremble with music again.
Give him welcome, though brawler he be;
He is here to announce that the beautiful Spring
Re-appears on the forest and lea.
The blithe lark is aware, for his earliest song,
As he flutters the breeze-broken cloudlets among,
Cometh down like melodious rain;
The thrush startles Echo with jovial voice,
And a thousand glad throats, that were made to rejoice,
Will soon tremble with music again.
Already the pastures are greening anew,
Waking Life is astir in the woods;
The speedwell re-opens its sweet eyes of blue,
And the hawthorn is speckled with buds;
Already the daisy, wherever it dare—
The daisy, so English, so homely, yet fair—
Looketh up with frank face to the sky;
In warm woodland hollows the violets unfold,
And their sun-loving sister, with chalice of gold,
Hebe Kingcup, will come by and by.
Waking Life is astir in the woods;
The speedwell re-opens its sweet eyes of blue,
And the hawthorn is speckled with buds;
Already the daisy, wherever it dare—
The daisy, so English, so homely, yet fair—
Looketh up with frank face to the sky;
In warm woodland hollows the violets unfold,
And their sun-loving sister, with chalice of gold,
Hebe Kingcup, will come by and by.
There's a lull in the winds, let us out while we may,
To partake the first gifts of the prime;
How the lowliest thing that we pass by the way
Seems to feel the fresh touch of the time!
What a genial balm! what a spring-breathing smell
From the mosses that mantle the old wood and well!
What a scent from the sward, as we go!
What a silence! for Thought in this solitude sleeps,
Scarcely broken by bird-notes that drop from the steeps,
Or the song of the brooklet below!
To partake the first gifts of the prime;
How the lowliest thing that we pass by the way
Seems to feel the fresh touch of the time!
6
From the mosses that mantle the old wood and well!
What a scent from the sward, as we go!
What a silence! for Thought in this solitude sleeps,
Scarcely broken by bird-notes that drop from the steeps,
Or the song of the brooklet below!
There is health for the ailing, who dare to be glad
'Mid the broad fields of Nature awhile;
There is hope for the doubtfullest soul that is sad,—
For the heart-stricken mourner a smile;
There is beauty for poets, and pastime for clowns;
There is solace for workers that weary in towns,—
Let them snatch the rare joy as they can;
There are charms for the senses, in holiest guise,
There are teachers the spirit may hear, and grow wise,
There are spells for the moodiest man.
'Mid the broad fields of Nature awhile;
There is hope for the doubtfullest soul that is sad,—
For the heart-stricken mourner a smile;
There is beauty for poets, and pastime for clowns;
There is solace for workers that weary in towns,—
Let them snatch the rare joy as they can;
There are charms for the senses, in holiest guise,
There are teachers the spirit may hear, and grow wise,
There are spells for the moodiest man.
What a painful and perilous year was the past!
With dismay and disaster how rife!
While terror and slaughter swept fiercely and fast
Through the highways and byways of life!
Let us bow to the rod, though the loss we deplore,
Let us utter great vows to retrieve, to restore,
Under Heaven's magnificent arch;
If for deeds which may win their acceptance above,
If for peace and progression, for justice and love,
Let our word of endeavour be—“March!”
With dismay and disaster how rife!
While terror and slaughter swept fiercely and fast
Through the highways and byways of life!
Let us bow to the rod, though the loss we deplore,
Let us utter great vows to retrieve, to restore,
Under Heaven's magnificent arch;
If for deeds which may win their acceptance above,
If for peace and progression, for justice and love,
Let our word of endeavour be—“March!”
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |