Hawthorn and Lavender.
by William Ernest Henley.
PROLOGUE
These to the glory and praise of the green land That bred my women, and that holds my dead, _ENGLAND_, and with her the strong broods that stand Wherever her fighting lines are thrust or spread!
They call us proud?--Look at our English Rose!
Shedders of blood?--Where hath our own been spared?
Shopkeepers?--Our accompt the high _G.o.d_ knows.
Close?--In our bounty half the world hath shared.
They hate us, and they envy? Envy and hate Should drive them to the _PIT"S_ edge?--Be it so!
That race is d.a.m.ned which misesteems its fate; And this, in _G.o.d"S_ good time, they all shall know, And know you too, you good green _ENGLAND_, then-- Mother of mothering girls and governing men!
1. HAWTHORN AND LAVENDER
ENVOY
_My songs were once of the sunrise_: _They shouted it over the bar_; _First-footing the dawns_, _they flourished_, _And flamed with the morning star_.
_My songs are now of the sunset_: _Their brows are touched with light_, _But their feet are lost in the shadows_ _And wet with the dews of night_.
_Yet for the joy in their making_ _Take them_, _O fond and true_, _And for his sake who made them_ _Let them be dear to You_.
PRAELUDIUM
_Largo espressivo_
In sumptuous chords, and strange, Through rich yet poignant harmonies: Subtle and strong browns, reds Magnificent with death and the pride of death, Thin, clamant greens And delicate yellows that exhaust The exquisite chromatics of decay: From ruining gardens, from reluctant woods-- Dear, mult.i.tudinously reluctant woods!-- And sering margents, forced To be lean and bare and perished grace by grace, And flower by flower discharmed, Comes, to a purpose none, Not even the Scorner, which is the Fool, can blink, The dead-march of the year.
Dead things and dying! Now the long-laboured soul Listens, and pines. But never a note of hope Sounds: whether in those high, Transcending unisons of resignation That speed the sovran sun, As he goes southing, weakening, minishing, Almighty in obedience; or in those Small, sorrowful colloquies Of bronze and russet and gold, Colour with colour, dying things with dead, That break along this visual orchestra: As in that other one, the audible, Horn answers horn, hautboy and violin Talk, and the "cello calls the clarionet And flute, and the poor heart is glad.
There is no hope in these--only despair.
Then, destiny in act, ensues That most tremendous pa.s.sage in the score: When hangman rains and winds have wrought Their worst, and, the brave lights gone down, The low strings, the brute bra.s.s, the sullen drums Sob, grovel, and curse themselves Silent. . . .
But on the spirit of Man And on the heart of the World there falls A strange, half-desperate peace: A war-worn, militant, gray jubilance In the unkind, implacable tyranny Of Winter, the obscene, Old, c.r.a.pulous Regent, who in his loins-- O, who but feels he carries in his loins The wild, sweet-blooded, wonderful harlot, Spring?
I.
Low--low Over a perishing after-glow, A thin, red shred of moon Trailed. In the windless air The poplars all ranked lean and chill.
The smell of winter loitered there, And the Year"s heart felt still.
Yet not so far away Seemed the mad Spring, But that, as lovers will, I let my laughing heart go play, As it had been a fond maid"s frolicking; And, turning thrice the gold I"d got, In the good gloom Solemnly wished me--what?
What, and with whom?
II
Moon of half-candied meres And flurrying, fading snows; Moon of unkindly rains, Wild skies, and troubled vanes; When the Norther snarls and bites, And the lone moon walks a-cold, And the lawns grizzle o" nights, And wet fogs search the fold: Here in this heart of mine A dream that warms like wine, A dream one other knows, Moon of the roaring weirs And the sip-sopping close, February Fill-d.y.k.e, Shapes like a royal rose-- A red, red rose!
O, but the distance clears!
O, but the daylight grows!
Soon shall the pied wind-flowers Babble of greening hours, Primrose and daffodil Yearn to a fathering sun, The lark have all his will, The thrush be never done, And April, May, and June Go to the same blythe tune As this blythe dream of mine!
Moon when the crocus peers, Moon when the violet blows, February Fair-Maid, Haste, and let come the rose-- Let come the rose!
III
The night dislimns, and breaks Like snows slow thawn; An evil wind awakes On lea and lawn; The low East quakes; and hark!
Out of the kindless dark, A fierce, protesting lark, High in the horror of dawn!
A shivering streak of light, A scurry of rain: Bleak day from bleaker night Creeps pinched and fain; The old gloom thins and dies, And in the wretched skies A new gloom, sick to rise, Sprawls, like a thing in pain.
And yet, what matter--say!-- The shuddering trees, The Easter-stricken day, The sodden leas?
The good bird, wing and wing With Time, finds heart to sing, As he were hastening The swallow o"er the seas.
IV
It came with the year"s first crocus In a world of winds and snows-- Because it would, because it must, Because of life and time and l.u.s.t; And a year"s first crocus served my turn As well as the year"s first rose.
The March rack hurries and hectors, The March dust heaps and blows; But the primrose flouts the daffodil, And here"s the patient violet still; And the year"s first crocus brought me luck, So hey for the year"s first rose!
V
The good South-West on sea-worn wings Comes shepherding the good rain; The brave Sea breaks, and glooms, and swings, A weltering, glittering plain.
Sound, Sea of England, sound and shine, Blow, English Wind, amain, Till in this old, gray heart of mine The Spring need wake again!