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Gleamed through the slumbrous leafage of our lawns,

I flashed the flowing Isis from my oars

And dreamed of triumph and the prize to come,
And breathed myself, in sport, one after one,
Against the men with whom I was to row,
Until I feared but Chester — him alone.

So June stole on to July, sun by sun,

And the day came; how well I mind that day!
Glorious with summer, not a cloud abroad
To dim the glorious greenness of the fields,
And all a happy hush about the earth,
And not a hum to stir the drowsy noon,
Save where along the peopled towing-paths,
Banking the river, swarmed the city out,
Loud of the contest, bright as humming birds,
Two winding rainbows by the river's brinks,
That flushed with boats and barges, silken-
awned,

Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls,
Our College toasts, and gay with jests and
laugh,

Bright as their champagne. One, among them all,

My eye saw only; one, that morning, left

With smiles that hid the terrors of my heart, And spoke of certain hope, and mocked at fears

One, that upon my neck had parting hung
Arms white as daisies - on my bosom hid
A tearful face that sobbed against my heart,

Filled with what fondness! yearning with what

love!

O hope, and would the glad day make her mine?
O hope, was hope a prophet, truth alone?

There was a murmur in my heart of "Yes,"
That sung to slumber every wakening fear
That still would stir and shake me with its
dread.

And now a hush was on the wavering crowd
That swayed along the river, reach by reach
A grassy mile, to where we were to turn
A barge moored mid-stream, flushed with flut-
tering flags.

And we were ranged, and, at the gun we went,
As in a horse-race, all, at first, a-crowd;

Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropped off,
Till, rounding the moored mark, Chester and I
Left the last lingerer with us lengths astern,
The victory hopeless. Then I knew the strife
Was come, and hoped 'gainst fear, and, oar to
oar,

Strained to the work before me. Head to head
Through the wild-cheering river-banks we clove
The swarming waters, raining streams of toil;
But Chester gained, so much his tutored strength
Held on, enduring, - mine still waning more,
And parting with the victory, inch by inch,
Yet straining on, as if I strove with death,
Until I groaned with anguish. Chester heard,
And turned a wondering face upon me quick,
And tossed a laugh across, with jesting words:
"What, Ned, my boy, and do you take it so?

The cup 's not worth the moaning of a man,
No, nor the triumph. Tush! boy, I must win."
Then from the anguish of my heart a cry

Burst, "Kate, oh, dearest Kate

lose!"

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"Ah, I've a Kate, too, here to see me win!"
He answered; "Faith, boy, I pity you."
"Oh, if you lose," I answered, "you but lose
A week's wild triumph, and its praise and pride;
I, losing, lose what priceless years of joy!
Perchance a life's whole sum of happiness-
What years with her that I might call my wife!
Winning, I win her!" O thrice noble heart!
I saw the mocking laugh fade from his face;
I saw a nobler light light up his eyes;

I saw the flush of pride die into one
Of manly tenderness and sharp resolve;
No word he spoke; only one look he threw,
That told me all; and, ere my heart could leap
In prayers and blessings rained upon his name,
I was before him, through the tracking eyes
Of following thousands, heading to the goal,
The shouting goal, that hurled my conquering

name

Miles wide in triumph, " Chester foiled at last!" Oh, how I turned to him! with what a heart! Unheard the shouts unseen the crowding gaze

That ringed us. How I wrung his answering

hand

With grasps that blessed him, and with flush that told

I shamed to hear my name more loud than his,
And scorned its triumph. So I won my wife,
My own dear wife; and so I won a friend,
Chester, more dear than all but only her,
And these, the small ones of my College dreams.
WILLIAM Cox BENNEtt.

A CRICKET BOWLER.

Two minutes' rest till the next man goes in!
The tired arms lie with every sinew slack
On the mown grass.
Unbent the supple

back,

And elbows apt to make the leather spin Up the slow bat and round the unwary shin, In knavish hands a most unkindly knack; But no guile shelters under this boy's black Crisp hair, frank eyes, and honest English skin.

Two minutes only. Conscious of a name, The new man plants his weapon with profound

Long-practised skill that no mere trick may

scare.

Not loath, the rested lad resumes the game: The flung ball takes one maddening tortuous bound,

And the mid-stump three somersaults in air.

EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY.

ΙΟ

A LAY OF THE LINKS.

IT'S up and away

from our work to-day,

For the breeze sweeps over the down;

And it's hey for a game where the gorse blossoms flame,

And the bracken is bronzing to brown.

With the turf 'neath our tread and the blue overhead,

And the song of the lark in the whin;

There's the flag and the green, with the bunkers between

Now will you be over or in?

The doctor may come, and we'll teach him to know

A tee where no tannin can lurk;

The soldier may come, and we'll promise to show

Some hazards a soldier may shirk;

The statesman may joke, as he tops every stroke,

That at last he is high in his aims;

And the clubman will stand with a club in his hand

That is worth every club in St. James'.

The palm and the leather come rarely together, Gripping the driver's haft,

And it's good to feel the jar of the steel

And the spring of the hickory shaft.

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