MELTON MOWBRAY 19 



What is time ? the effluxion of life zoophitic 



In dreary pursuit of position or gain. 

 What is life? the absorption of vapours mephitic, 



And the bursting of sunlight on senses and brain ! 

 Such a life have I lived — though so speedily over, 



Condensing the joys of a century's course, 

 From the find till we eat him near Woodwellhead Cover, 



In thirty bright minutes from Ranksboro' Gorse. 



in 



Last night in St. Stephen's so wearily sitting, 



(The member for Boreham sustained the debate), 

 Some pitying spirit that round me was flitting 



Vouchsafed a sweet vision my pains to abate. 

 The Mace, and the Speaker, and House disappearing, 



The leather-clad bench is a thoroughbred horse ; 

 'Tis the whimpering cry of the foxhound I'm hearing, 



And my " seat " is a pig-skin at Ranksboro' Gorse. 



He's away ! I can hear the identical holloa ! 



I can feel my young thoroughbred strain down the ride, 

 I can hear the dull thunder of hundreds that follow, 



I can see my old comrades in life by my side. 

 Do I dream ? all around me I see the dead riding, 



And voices long silent re-echo with glee ; 

 I can hear the far wail of the Master's vain chiding, 



As vain as the Norseman's reproof to the sea. 



Vain indeed ! for the bitches are racing before us — 



Not a nose to the earth — not a stern in the air ; 

 And we know by the notes of that modified chorus 



How straight we must ride if we wish to be there ! 

 With a crash o'er the turnpike, and onward I'm sailing, 



Released from the throes of the blundering mass, 

 Which dispersed right and left as I topped the high railing 



And shape my own course o'er the billowy grass. 



