Charles felt like a captain whose ship has long chased Some ship better handled, better manned, better placed, And has all day beheld her, that ship of his dream, Bowing swanlike beyond him up a blue hill of gleam, Yet, at dark, the wind rising makes his rival strike sail While his own ship crowds canvas and comes within hail; Till he see her, his rival, snouting into the grey, Like a sea-rock in winter that stands and breaks spray, And by lamplight goes past her in a roaring of song Shouting, "Let fall your royals: stretch the halliards along!" Now The Ghost dropped behind him, now his horses drew close. Charles watched them, in praying, while his hopes rose and rose, "O God, give me patience, give me luck, give me skill, For he's going so grandly I think that he will." They went at Lost Lady's like Severn at flood, With an urging of horses and a squelching of mud; By the hot flanks of horses the toppings were bruised, And Syringa the manless swerved right and refused. Swerved right on a sudden, as none could expect, Straight into Right Royal, who slithered and pecked, Though Charles held him up and got safely across, He was round his nag's neck within touch of a toss. He gat to his saddle, he never knew how; What hope he had had was knocked out of him now, But his courage came back as his terror declined, He spoke to Right Royal and made up his mind. He judged the lengths lost and the chance that remained, And he followed his field, and he gained, and he gained. He watched them, those horses, so splendid, so swift, Whirled down the green roadway like leaves in the lift: Now he measured their mettle, and said with a moan, "They can beat me, Lord help me, though they give me a stone. Red Ember's a wonder, and Soyland's the same, And Gavotte there's a beauty, and she goes like a flame; But Peterkinooks, that I used to despise, Is the horse that must win if his looks are not lies." Their bright colours flitted as at dusk in Brazil Bright birds reach the tree-tops when the land wind falls still, When the sky is all scarlet on the tops of the treen Comes a whirl of birds flying, blue and orange and green. As a whirl of notes running in a fugue that men play, And the thundering follows as the pipe flits away, And the laughter comes after and the hautboys begin, So they ran at the hurdle and scattered the whin. As they leaped to the race-course the sun burst from cloud And like tumult in dream came the roar of the crowd. For to right and to left, now, were crowded men yelling, And a great cry boomed backward like muffled bells knelling, And a surge of men running seemed to follow the race, The horses all trembled and quickened their pace.