Prologue
Calm and clear! the bright day is declining,The crystal expanse of the bay,Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining‘Twixt headlands of purple and grey,While the little waves leap in the sunset,And strike with a miniature shock,In sportive and infantine onset,The base of the iron-stone rock.
Calm and clear! the sea-breezes are ladenWith a fragrance, a freshness, a power,With a song like the song of a maiden,With a scent like the scent of a flower;And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic,Comes home with the sigh of the surf;—But I pause, for your fancies poeticNever rise from the level of “Turf”.
Fellow-bungler of mine, fellow-sinner,In public performances past,In trials whence touts take their winner,In rumours that circulate fast,In strains from Prunella or Priam,Staying stayers, or goers that go,You’re much better posted than I am,’Tis little I care, less I know.
Alas! neither poet nor prophetAm I, though a jingler of rhymes—’Tis a hobby of mine, and I’m off itAt times, and I’m on it at times;And whether I’m off it or on it,Your readers my counsels will shun,Since I scarce know Van Tromp from Blue Bonnet,Though I might know Cigar from the Nun.
With “visions” you ought to be satedAnd sicken’d by this time, I swearThat mine are all myths self-created,Air visions that vanish in air;If I had some loose coins I might chuck one,To settle this question and say,“Here goes! this is tails for the black one,And heads for my fav’rite the bay.”
And must I rob Paul to pay Peter,Or Peter defraud to pay Paul?My rhymes, are they stale? if my metreIs varied, one chime rings through all:One chime—though I sing more or sing less,I have but one string to my lute,And it might have been better if, stringlessAnd songless, the same had been mute.
Yet not as a seer of visions,Nor yet as a dreamer of dreams,I send you these partial decisionsOn hackney’d, impoverish’d themes;But with song out of tune, sung to pass time,Flung heedless to friends or to foes,Where the false notes that ring for the last time,May blend with some real ones, who knows?
The Race
On the hill they are crowding together,In the stand they are crushing for room,Like midge-flies they swarm on the heather,They gather like bees on the broom;They flutter like moths round a candle—Stale similes, granted, what then?I’ve got a stale subject to handle,A very stale stump of a pen.
Hark! the shuffle of feet that are many,Of voices the many-tongued clang—“Has he had a bad night?” “Has he anyFriends left?”—How I hate your turf slang;’Tis stale to begin with, not witty,But dull, and inclined to be coarse,But bad men can’t use (more’s the pity)Good words when they slate a good horse.
Heu! heu! quantus equis (that’s LatinFor “bellows to mend” with the weeds),They’re off! lights and shades! silk and satin!A rainbow of riders and steeds!And one shows in front, and anotherGoes up and is seen in his place,Sic transit (more Latin)—Oh! bother,Let’s get to the end of the race.
See, they come round the last turn careering,Already Tait’s colours are struck,And the green in the vanguard is steering,And the red’s in the rear of the ruck!Are the stripes in the shade doom’d to lie long?Do the blue stars on white skies wax dim?Is it Tamworth or Smuggler? ’Tis BylongThat wins—either Bylong or Tim.
As the shell through the breach that is rivenAnd sapp’d by the springing of mines,As the bolt from the thunder-cloud driven,That levels the larches and pines,Through yon mass parti-colour’d that dashesGoal-turn’d, clad in many-hued garb,From rear to van, surges and flashesThe yellow and black of The Barb.
Past The Fly, falling back on the right, andThe Gull, giving way on the left,Past Tamworth, who feels the whip smite, andWhose sides by the rowels are cleft;Where Tim and the chestnut togetherStill bear of the battle the brunt,As if eight stone twelve were a feather,He comes with a rush to the front.
Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar,And Bylong’s the horse that can stay,But Kean is in trouble—and CarterIs hard on the satin-skinn’d bay;And The Barb comes away unextended,Hard held, like a second Eclipse,While behind the hoof-thunder is blendedWith the whistling and crackling of whips.