THE AMATEURS 185 



'Tis Worcester's Lord who drives the team, 



Thorough-bred, or near it, 

 Of all the talents, he's the cream — 



Upset? who can fear it? 



And now they change, and off again 



Under half a minute; 

 So just each trace, so true each rein, 



Really magic's in it! 



Like bright Japan the harness shines 



All chosen and seleft; 

 The brass — like famed Potosi's mines 



A mirror to refleft. 



And mark the flowers on each head — 



The rose and lily fair 

 Around us all their fragrance shed, 



Embalm the morning air! 



The well-shaped yew, the tapering thong, 



Proclaimed the workman's art; 

 But as the blood ones dash along. 



They feel no useless smart. 



Oh no! he tries each supple rein 



To check their eager speed 

 Strong is the hand that can restrain 



Each noble well-bred steed. 



Here is all life, excitement, joy. 



Our troubles left behind. 

 No cares our pleasure to destroy. 



Our sorrows to the wind. 



