Джеральд Масси (Gerald Massey)

Spring Is Coming

Spring is coming; lovely Spring!
    Soon her liquid silvery voice
Will through waving woods be ringing,
In her bow'r of roses singing,
    Where the limpid streams rejoice.

Spring is coming; blooming Spring!
    Soft to wake the sleeping flow'rs,
And call forth earth's slumb'ring sweet-
        ness;
While the bees, on wings of fleetness,
    Hum, and suck the honey'd show'rs.

Spring is coming; golden Spring!
    And beneath her azure skies,
Violets, o'er rich with fragrance,
And the silken, soft, primroses,
    Will ope their melting pearl-dewed
        eyes.

In the green, rich-spangled meadows,
    Golden cowslips will peep forth,
Crimson-spotted, and the starry
Daisies flush each solitary
    Nook, with looks of smiling mirth.

By the margins of sweet waters,
    Flow'rs will bud to music's gush;
Blossoms crown the shades embow'ring,
And the leafless thorn-bush flow'ring,
    With a sun lit, maiden, blush.

The cuckoo's voice melodious
    To our hearts recals youth's time;
The heaven-wing'd lark now warbles
        o'er us,
And woodland minstrels join the chorus,
    Welcoming earth's delicious prime.

And while fields, in emerald beauty,
    Laugh in morning's crimson beam,
And each flow'ret's heart rejoices;
Playful winds will wake their voices,
    Like beauty murmuring in her dream.

But another spring is coming— 
    Spring-tide of the human mind;
Though its light be faint as star-light,
"Strong it burns, that coming far light!"
    Softly lisps each passing wind.

By the blood of ancient martyrs—
    Wrung and spilt as water free;
By poor Poland's patriots hoary,
By her young ones, soil'd and gory—
    Chain'd 'neath hell-born tyranny.

By the groans of tax-crush'd starvelings,
    Earth shall see a radiant spring;
Nature's mental pulse is stirring,
Heard ye not the joyful whirring
    Of fair freedom's brooding wing?

Not in vain have madden'd millions
    Fed the fiery jaws of war,
Or turn'd murderers resign'dly;
Not in vain have myriads blindly
    Bled 'neath wrong's gore-spatter'd car.

To the golden spring of Freedom
    These an impulse strong have given;
Where blood gush'd, flow'rs will be
        springing—
Where men groan'd, their children
        singing,
    Singing hymns of land to Heaven.

'Twill not be a passing season,
    Fading light and withering bloom,
While the blushing rosy cluster,
On earth's bosom, rich in lustre,
    Bud and ripen for the tomb—

Still, in gathering strength and glory,
    Mighty o'er the world 'twill run:
And all hearts 'twill warm and lighten,
And all dark shades gild and brighten,
    Like yon glad, immortal, Sun!

A TRING PEASANT BOY.