I.Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flightThat scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has drivenAgainst the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clearsThe sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Hambledon and all its Peers.To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?And this same summer day that brings a KnightMay take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;And Hornby—that great hitter—his own SonPlays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,But none played out the last and silent Ball.Well, let them Perish! What have we to doWith Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thouBefore me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch—O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!II.I listened where the Grass was shaven small,And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:But this I know, where nothing else I know,The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;And he who One or who a Hundred hitsFalleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.Wherefore am I allotted but a DayTo taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,Ended alike the Player and the Play?Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,I think thereof our Willing is but small.Against the Attack and Twist of CircumstanceThough I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy HandBreak, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish SpeechAnd wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:Yet thought I, I had heard PhilosophersPrate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;Albeit right evil is the Ground, and weKnow our Defence thereon will be but lame.O Love, if thou and I could but ConspireAgainst this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,Would we not Doctor it afresh, and thenRoll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?
I.Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flightThat scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has drivenAgainst the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clearsThe sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Hambledon and all its Peers.To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?And this same summer day that brings a KnightMay take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;And Hornby—that great hitter—his own SonPlays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,But none played out the last and silent Ball.Well, let them Perish! What have we to doWith Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thouBefore me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch—O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!II.I listened where the Grass was shaven small,And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:But this I know, where nothing else I know,The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;And he who One or who a Hundred hitsFalleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.Wherefore am I allotted but a DayTo taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,Ended alike the Player and the Play?Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,I think thereof our Willing is but small.Against the Attack and Twist of CircumstanceThough I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy HandBreak, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish SpeechAnd wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:Yet thought I, I had heard PhilosophersPrate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;Albeit right evil is the Ground, and weKnow our Defence thereon will be but lame.O Love, if thou and I could but ConspireAgainst this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,Would we not Doctor it afresh, and thenRoll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?
Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flightThat scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has drivenAgainst the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.
Wake! for the Ruddy Ball has taken flight
That scatters the slow Wicket of the Night;
And the swift Batsman of the Dawn has driven
Against the Star-spiked Rails a fiery Smite.
Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clearsThe sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may beMyself with Hambledon and all its Peers.
Wake, my Belovèd! take the Bat that clears
The sluggish Liver, and Dyspeptics cheers:
To-morrow? Why, to-morrow I may be
Myself with Hambledon and all its Peers.
To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?And this same summer day that brings a KnightMay take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.
To-day a Score of Batsmen brings, you say?
Yes, but where leaves the Bats of yesterday?
And this same summer day that brings a Knight
May take the Grace and Ranjitsinjh away.
Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;And Hornby—that great hitter—his own SonPlays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.
Willsher the famed is gone with all his 'throws,'
And Alfred's Six-foot Reach where no man knows;
And Hornby—that great hitter—his own Son
Plays in his place, yet recks not the Red Rose.
And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,But none played out the last and silent Ball.
And Silver Billy, Fuller Pilch and Small,
Alike the pigmy Briggs and Ulyett tall,
Have swung their Bats an hour or two before,
But none played out the last and silent Ball.
Well, let them Perish! What have we to doWith Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!
Well, let them Perish! What have we to do
With Gilbert Grace the Great, or that Hindu?
Let Hirst and Spooner slog them as they list,
Or Warren bowl his 'snorter'; care not you!
With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.
With me along the Strip of Herbage strown,
That is not laid or watered, rolled or sown,
Where name of Lord's and Oval is forgot,
And peace to Nicholas on his bomb-girt Throne.
A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thouBefore me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch—O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!
A level Wicket, as the Ground allow,
A driving Bat, a lively Ball, and thou
Before me bowling on the Cricket-Pitch—
O Cricket-pitch were Paradise enow!
I listened where the Grass was shaven small,And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.
I listened where the Grass was shaven small,
And heard the Bat that groaned against the Ball:
Thou pitchest Here and There, and Left and Right,
Nor deem I where the Spot thou next may'st Fall.
Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:But this I know, where nothing else I know,The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.
Forward I play, and Back, and Left and Right,
And overthrown at once, or stay till Night:
But this I know, where nothing else I know,
The last is Thine, how so the Bat shall smite.
This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;And he who One or who a Hundred hitsFalleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.
This thing is sure, where nothing else is sure,
The boldest Bat may but a Space endure;
And he who One or who a Hundred hits
Falleth at ending to thy Force or Lure.
Wherefore am I allotted but a DayTo taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,Ended alike the Player and the Play?
Wherefore am I allotted but a Day
To taste Delight, and make so brief a stay;
For Meed of all my Labour laid aside,
Ended alike the Player and the Play?
Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,I think thereof our Willing is but small.
Behold, there is an Arm behind the Ball,
Nor the Bat's Stroke of its own Striking all;
And who the Gamesters, to what end the Game,
I think thereof our Willing is but small.
Against the Attack and Twist of CircumstanceThough I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'
Against the Attack and Twist of Circumstance
Though I oppose Defence and shifty Glance,
What Power gives Nerve to me, and what Assaults,—
This is the Riddle. Let dull bats cry 'Chance.'
Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy HandBreak, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!
Is there a Foe that [domineers] the Ball?
And one that Shapes and wields us Willows all?
Be patient if Thy Creature in Thy Hand
Break, and the so-long-guarded Wicket fall!
Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish SpeechAnd wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:Yet thought I, I had heard PhilosophersPrate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.
Thus spoke the Bat. Perchance a foolish Speech
And wooden, for a Bat has straitened Reach:
Yet thought I, I had heard Philosophers
Prate much on this wise, and aspire to Teach.
Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;Albeit right evil is the Ground, and weKnow our Defence thereon will be but lame.
Ah, let us take our Stand, and play the Game,
But rather for the Cause than for the Fame;
Albeit right evil is the Ground, and we
Know our Defence thereon will be but lame.
O Love, if thou and I could but ConspireAgainst this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,Would we not Doctor it afresh, and thenRoll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?
O Love, if thou and I could but Conspire
Against this Pitch of Life, so false with Mire,
Would we not Doctor it afresh, and then
Roll it out smoother to the Bat's Desire?