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, So June stole on to July, sun by sun, And the day came; how well I mind that day! Shading the fluttering beauties of our balls, 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 Filled with what fondness! yearning with what love! O hope, and would the glad day make her mine? There was a murmur in my heart of "Yes," And now a hush was on the wavering crowd And we were ranged, and, at the gun we went, Then, thinning slowly, one by one dropped off, Strained to the work before me. Head to head The cup 's not worth the moaning of a man, Burst, "Kate, oh, dearest Kate lose!" - oh, love – we "Ah, I've a Kate, too, here to see me win!" I saw the flush of pride die into one 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, A CRICKET BOWLER. Two minutes' rest till the next man goes in! 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. |