THE ENGLISH RACE-HORSE. 



A start ! a start ! they're off, by heaven, 

 Like a single norse, though twenty-seven 

 And 'mid the flush of silks we scan 

 A Yorkshire jacket in the van : 



Hurrah, the bold bay mare ? 



A hundred yards have glided by 



And they settle to the race, 

 More keen becomes each straining eye, 



More terrible the pace. 

 Unbroken yet, o'er the gravel road, 

 Like madd'ning waves, the troop has flow'd, 



But the speed begins to tel) 

 And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear, 

 The Southron stealing from the rear, 



Aye ! mark his action well I 

 Behind he is, but what repose ! 

 How steadily and clean he goes ! 

 What latent speed his limbs disclose ! 

 What power in every stride he shows ? 

 They see, they feel, from man to man, 

 The shivering thrill of terror ran, 

 And every soul instinctive knew 

 It lay between the mighty two. 



These now are nothing, time and space 

 Lie in the rushing of the race ; 

 As with keen shouts of hope and fear 

 They watch it in its wild career. 



* Who leads ? Who fails ? How goes it now ?' 



One shooting spark of life intense, 



One throb of refluent suspense, 



And a far rainbow-colour'd light 



Trembles again upon the sight. 



Look to yon turn ! Already there ! 



Gleams the pink and black of the fiery mare. 



