THE ATHLETE'S GARLAND. BEFORE THE RACE. THE impatient starter waxeth saturnine. "Is the bell cracked?" he cries. They make it sound: And six tall lads break through the standersround. I watch with Mary while they form in line; White-jerseyed all, but each with some small sign, A broidered badge, or shield with painted ground, And one with crimson kerchief sash-wise bound I think we know that token, neighbour mine. Willie, they call you best of nimble wights; Yet brutal Fate shall whelm in slippery ways Two soles at least. Will it be you she spites? Ah, well! 'T is not so much to win the bays : Uncrowned or crowned, the struggle still delights; It is the effort, not the palm, we praise. EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY. THE ATHLETE. BETTER than Fame, is still the wish for Fame, The constant training for a glorious strife; The Athlete, nurtured for the Olympian game, Gains strength at least for life. EDWARD, LORD LYTTON. o' me, Oh, but the soul of me 's other than that! Else, should I thrill as I do so exultingly Climbing the air from the thick o' the bat? Leather - the heart o' me: ay, but in verity Kindred I claim with the sun in the sky. Heroes, bow all to the little red ball, And bow to my brother ball blazing on high. Pour on us torrents of light, good Sun, shine; |