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. THE MERMAID OF PADSTOW |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.