Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him
at evens;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;
The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is
sweeter
Than ever—he swears he can win all the way.
"A gentleman rider—well, I'm an outsider,
But if he's a gent who the mischiefs a jock?
You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the
plunder,
He rides, too, like thunder—he sits like a
rock.
"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely
Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the
hounds,
A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and
Yorick,
And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.
"They say we have no test to warrant a
protest;
Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a
steward;
The light of their faces they show him—his
case is
Prejudged and his verdict already secured.
"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,
She strides in her work clean away from The
Drag;
You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,
Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.
"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though
they back it,
May fall, or there's no knowing what may
turn up.
The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,
Keep cool; and I think you may just win the
Cup."
Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for
the tussle,
Stood Iseult, arching her neck to the curb,
A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.
Some parting injunction, bestowed with great
unction,
I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,
When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White
Surrey,
Came down in a hurry to start us at once.
"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on
Othello!
Hold hard on the chesnut! Turn round on
The Drag!
Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir,
in tartan!
So, steady there, easy," and down went the
flag.
We started, and Kerr made strong running on
Mermaid,
Through furrows that led to the first stake-
and-bound,
The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and
splendid,
Held wide on the right where the headland
was sound.
I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,
Before her two-thirds of the field got away,
All through the wet pasture where floods of the
last year
Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with
clay.
The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and
Blue-bottle;
The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn
arid ditch,
The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,
The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire
Witch.
She passed like an arrow Kildare and Cock
Sparrow,
And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone
wall;
And Giles on The Greyling came down at the
paling,
And I was left sailing in front of them all.
I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed
her
Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,
And through the strong bramble we bored
with a scramble—
My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree
bough.
Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein
tighter—
Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of
white foam,
Her flanks mud bespattered, a weak rail she
shattered—
We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for
home.
Then crash'd a low binder, and then close
behind her
The sward to the strokes of the favourite
shook;
His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little
She shorten'd her stride as we raced at the
brook.
She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream
glitter,
A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,
Between sky and water The Clown came and
caught her,
The space that he cleared was a caution to see.
And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
A length to the front went the rider in green;
A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,
Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset
between.
She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,
I found my hands give to her strain on the
bit,
She rose when the Clown did—our silks as we
bounded
Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as
we lit.
A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone
coping—
The last—we diverged round the base of the
hill;
His path was the nearer, his leap was the
clearer,
I flogg'd up the straight, and he led sitting
still.
She came to his quarter, and on still I brought
her,
And up to his girth, to his breast-plate she
drew;
A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me,
"The devil,"
He mutter'd—lock'd level the hurdles we flew.
A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd
careering,
All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely
heard;
"The green wins!" "The crimson!" The
multitude swims on,
And figures are blended and features are
blurr'd.
"The horse is her master!" "The green
forges past her!"
"The Clown will outlast her!" "The
Clown wins!" "The Clown!"
The white railing races with all the white faces,
The chesnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.
On still past the gateway she strains in the
straightway,
Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck
at most,"
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand
rocks and surges,
And flashes, and verges, and flits the white
post.
Aye! so ends the tussle,—I knew the tan muzzle
Was first, though the ring-men were yelling
"Dead heat!"
A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said "The
mare by
A short head." And that's how the favourite
was beat.
——A. L. Gordon.
It is long Tom Yeo of the town of Padstow,
And he is a ne'er-do-weel:
"Ho, mates," cries he, "rejoice with me,
For I have shot a seal."
Nay, Tom, by the mass thou art but an ass,
No seal bestains this foam;
But the long wave rolls up a Mermaid's glass
And a young Mermaiden's comb.
The sun has set, the night-clouds throng,
The sea is steely grey.
They hear the dying Mermaid's song
Peal from the outer bay.
"A curse with you go, ye men of Padstow!
Ye shall not thrive or win,
Ye have seen the last ship from your haven slip,
And the last ship enter in.
"For this deed I devote you to dwell without
boat
By the skirt of the oarèd blue,
And ever be passed by sail and by mast,
And none with an errand for you."
And scarce had she spoke when the black
storm broke
With thunder and levin's might:
Three days did it blow, and none in Padstow
Could tell the day from night.
Joy! the far thunder mutters soft,
The wild clouds whirl o'erhead,
And from a ragged rift aloft
A shaft of light is sped.
Now ho for him that waits to send
The storm-bound bark to sea!
And ho for them that hither bend
To crowd our busy quay!
Hath Ocean, think ye then, not heard
His dying child deplore?
Are not his sandy deeps unstirred,
And thrust against the shore?
Doth not a mighty ramp of sand
Beleaguer all the bay,
Mocking the strength of mortal hand
To pierce or sweep away?
The white-winged traders, all about,
Fare o'er that bar to win:
But this one cries, I cannot out,
And that, I may not in.
For thy dire woe, forlorn Padstow,
What remedy may be?
Not all the brine of thy sad eyne
Will float thy ships to sea.
The sighs that from thy seamen pass
Might set a fleet a-sail,
And the faces that look in the Mermaid's
glass
Are as long as the Mermaid's tail.
——R. Garnett.
0050m
Twelve o'clock—a misty night—
Glimpsing hints of buried light—
Six years strung in an iron chain—r
Time I stood on the ground again!
So—by your leave! Slip, easy enough,
Withered wrists from the rusty cuff.
The old chain rattles, the old wood groans,
O the clatter of clacking bones!
Here I am, uncoated, unhatted,
Shirt all mildewed, hair all matted,
Sockets that each have royally
Fed the crow with a precious eye.
O for slashing Bess the brown!
Where, old lass, have they earthed thee
down?
Sobb'st beneath a carrier's thong?
Strain'st a coalman's cart along?
Shame to foot it!—must be so.
See, the mists are smitten below;
Over the moorland, wide away,
Moonshine pours her watery day.
There the long white-dusted track,
There a crawling speck of black.
The Northern mail, ha, ha! and he
There on the box is Anthony.
Coachman I scared him from brown or
grey,
Witness he lied my blood away.
Haste, Fred! haste, boy! never fail!
Now or never! catch the mail!
The horses plunge, and sweating stop.
Dead falls Tony, neck and crop.
Nay, good guard, small profit thus,
Shooting ghosts with a blunderbuss!
Crash wheel! coach over! How it rains
Hampers, ladies, wigs, and canes!
O the spoil! to sack it and lock it!
But, woe is me, I have never a pocket!
——R. Garnett.
There were twa brethren fell on strife;
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
The tane has reft his brother of life;
And the wind wears owre the heather.
There were twa brethren fell to fray
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
The tane is clad in a coat of clay;
And the wind wears owre the heather.
O loud and loud was the live man's cry,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"Would God the dead and the slain were I!"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"But liefer had love be slain than slay,"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"But I maun wake on a far sea's faem,"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"And women are fairest of a' things fair,"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"But never shall I kiss woman mair,"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
Between the birk and the aik and the thorn
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
He's laid his brother to lie forlorn:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
Between the bent, the burn, and the broom
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
He's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
He's tane him owre the waters wide,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
Afar to fleet and afar to bide:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
His hair was yellow, his cheek was red,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
When he set his face to the wind and fled:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
His banes were stark and his een were bright
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
When he set his face to the sea by night:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
His cheek was wan and his hair was grey
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
When he came back hame frae the wide world's
way:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
His banes were weary, his een were dim,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
And nae man lived and had mind of him:
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a prey wad they think to take"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's
sake?"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
And the red blood brak frae the dead white
bane;
And the wind wears owre the heather.
He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;
Sweet fruits are sair to gather:
And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand,
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O whatten a slayer is this," they said,
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"That the straik of his hand should raise his
dead?"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"O weel is me for the sign I take"
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake."
And the wind wears owre the heather.
"For the dead was in wait now fifty year,".
(Sweet fruits are sair to gather)
"And now I shall die for his blood's sake here,"
And the wind wears owre the heather.
——A. C. Swinburne.
0056m
The sea swings owre the slants of sand,
All white with winds that drive.,
The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,
Where nae man comes alive.
At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf
A light flame sinks and springs;
At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf
A low flame leaps and clings.
What light is this on a sunless shore,
What gleam on a starless sea?
Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore
Such births as should not be?
As lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,
They bicker and beckon and call;
As wild waves churning, as wild winds yearn-
ing,
They flicker and climb and fall.
A soft strange cry from the landward rings—
"What ails the sea to shine?"
A keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs—
"What fires are these of thine?"
"A soul am I that was born on earth
For ae day's waesome span:
Death bound me fast on the bourn of birth,
Ere I were christened man.
"A light by night, I fleet and fare
Till the day of wrath and woe;
On the hems of earth and the skirts of air
Winds hurl me to and fro."
"O well is thee, though the weird be strange
That bids thee flit and flee;
For hope is child of the womb of change,
And hope keeps watch with thee.
"When the years are gone, and the time is
come
God's grace may give thee grace;
And thy soul may sing, though thy soul were
dumb,
And shine before God's face.
"But I, that lighten and revel and roll
With the foam of the plunging sea,
No sign is mine of a breathing soul
That God should pity me.
"Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth
Hath part in me nor mine:
Strong lords are these of the living earth
And loveless lords of thine.
"But I that know nor lord nor life
More sure than storm or spray,
Whose breath is made of sport and strife,
Whereon shall I find stay?"
"And wouldst thou change thy doom with me,
Full fain with thee would I:
For the life that lightens and lifts the sea
Is more than earth or sky.
"And what if the day of doubt and doom
Shall save nor smite not me?
I would not rise from the slain world's tomb
If there be no more sea.
"Take he my soul that gave my soul,
And give it thee to keep;
And me, while seas and stars shall roll
Thy life that falls on sleep."
That word went up through the mirk mid sky,
And evén to God's own ear:
And the Lord was ware of the keen twin cry,
And wroth was he to hear.
He's tane the soul of the unsained child
That fled to death from birth;
He's tane the light of the wan sea wild,
And bid it burn on earth.
He's given the ghaist of the babe new-born
The gift of the water-sprite,
To ride on revel from morn to morn
And roll from night to night.
He's given the sprite of the wild wan sea
The gift of the new-born man,
A soul for ever to bide and be
When the years have filled their span.
When a year was gone and a year was come,.
O loud and loud cried they—
"For the lee-lang year thou hast held us dumb
Take now thy gifts away!"
O loud and lang they cried on him,
And sair and sair they prayed:
"Is the face of thy grace as the night's face
grim
For those thy wrath has made?"
A cry more bitter than tears of men
From the rim of the dim grey sea;—
"Give me my living soul again,
The soul thou gavest me,
The doom and the dole of kindly men,
To bide my weird and be!"
A cry more keen from the wild low land
Than the wail of waves that roll;—
"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,
Thy gift of doom and dole,
The weird of men that bide on land;
Take from me, take my soul!"
The hands that smite are the hands that spare
They build and break the tomb;
They turn to darkness and dust and air
The fruits of the waste earth's womb *
But never the gift of a granted prayer,
The dole of a spoken doom.
Winds may change at a word unheard,
But none may change the tides:
The prayer once heard is as God's own word;
The doom once dealt abides.
And ever a cry goes up by day,
And ever a wail by night;
And nae ship comes by the weary bay
But her shipmen hear them wail and pray,
And see with earthly sight
The twofold flames of the twin lights play
Where the sea-banks green and the sea-floods
grey
Are proud of peril and fain of prey,
And the sand quakes ever; and ill fare they
That look upon that light.
——A. C. Swinburne.