SEA SPRAY ^ SMOKE DRIFT 



And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen, 

 By the bright spring-tide renew'd, 



Like a ribbon of green, stretched out between 

 The ranks of the multitude. 



The flag is lowered. " They're off ! " '' They 

 come ! 



The squadron is sweeping on ; 

 A sway in the crowd — a murmuring hum ! 



''They're here!" ''They repast!" "They're 

 gone I 

 They came with the rush of the southern surf, 



On the bar of the storm-girt bay ; 

 And like muffled drums on the sounding turf 



Their hoof-strokes echo away. 



The rose and black draws clear of the ruck, 



And the murmur swells to a roar, 

 As the brave old colours that never were 

 struck 



Are seen with the lead once more. 

 Though the feathery ferns and grasses wave 



O'er the sod, where Lantern sleeps, 

 Though the turf is green on Fisherman'sgrave, 



The stable its prestige keeps. 



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