The man on Exception, Bun Manor, fell clear With Monkery's shoes half an inch from his ear, A drench of wet mud from the hoofs struck his cheek, But the race was gone from him before he could speak. There Exception and Thunderbolt ended their race, Their bright flanks all smeared with the mud of the place; In the green fields of Tencombe and the grey downs of Churn Their names had been glories till they fell at the Turn. Em prayed in her place that her lover might know Not to hurry Right Royal but let him go slow; White-lipped from her praying, she sat, with shut eyes, Begging help from her Helper, the deathless, the wise. From the gold of his branches her Helper took heed, He sent forth a thought to help Charles in his need. As the white, gleaming gannet eyes fish in the sea, So the thought sought a mortal to bring this to be. By the side of Exception Bun Manor now stood Sopping rags on a hock that was dripping bright blood. He had known Charles of old and defeat made him kind, The thought from the Helper came into his mind. So he cried to Charles Cothill, "Go easy," he cried, "Don't hurry; don't worry; sit still and keep wide. They flowed like the Severn, they'll ebb like the tide. They'll come back and you'll catch them." His voice died away. In front lay the Dyke, deep as drowning, steel grey. Charles felt his horse see it and stir at the sight. Again his heart lifted to the dream of the night; Once again in his heart's blood the horse seemed to say, "I'll die or I'll do it. It's my day to-day." He saw the grey water in shade from its fence, The rows of white faces all staring intense; All the heads straining forward, all the shoulders packt dense. Beyond, he saw Thankful, the riderless brown, Snatching grass, dodging capture, with reins hanging down. Then Thankful stopped eating and cocked up his head, He eyed the swift horses that Kubbadar led, His eye filled with fire at the roll of their tread; Then he tore down the course with a flash of bright shoes, As the race's bright herald on fire with news. As Charles neared the water, the Rocket ran out By jumping the railings and kicking a clout Of rotten white woodwork to startle the trout. When Charles cleared the water, the grass stretcht before And the glory of going burned in to the core. Far over his head with a whicker of wings Came a wisp of five snipe from a field full of springs; The gleam on their feathers went wavering past-- And then some men booed him for being the last. But last though he was, all his blood was on fire With the rush of the wind and the gleam of the mire, And the leap of his heart to the skylarks in quire, And the feel of his horse going onward, on, on, Under sky with white banners and bright sun that shone.