Генри Ньюболт (Henry Newbolt)

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.

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