A BALLADE OF CYCLING. My slender steed of steel is manned, But soon they die away and cease, The sun's eyes glow, his beams expand, Evening droops down upon the land, I hail the ever-bounding breeze, Prince, if thy Highness only please - For with the birds we soar and fly! GEORGE HERBERT CLArke. IN A FIVES COURT. SOMETIMES at night I stand within a court And still the walls are vibrant with the sport, Of agile limbs that now, their labours o'er, To healthful sleep their strength resign But how of those who played with me lang syne, And sleep for evermore? T. E. BROWN. THE CYCLE. THIS is the toy, beyond Aladdin's dreaming, This magic wheel upon whose hub is wound All roads, although they reach the world around, O'er western plain or Orient desert gleaming. This is the skein from which each day unravels Such new delights, such witching flights, such joys Of bounding blood, of glad escape from noise, And ventures beggaring old Crusoe's travels! It is as if some mighty necromancer, At king's command, to meet a lady's whim, Instilled such virtue in a rubber rim And brought it forth as his triumphant answer. For, wheresoe'er its shining spokes are fleeting, Fair benefits spring upward from its tread, And eyes grow bright, and cheeks all rosy red, Responsive to the heart's ecstatic beating. Thus Youth and Age, alike in healthful feeling, And man and maid, who find their paths are one, Crown this rare product of our century's run And sing the praise, the joy, 'the grace of wheeling ! CHARLES H. CRANDALL. THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS. WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest, Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. The sail is idle, the sailor too; O wind of the west, we wait for you! Blow, blow! I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow. You rock your cradle the hills between, I stow the sail, unship the mast: Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie grasses sweep! August is laughing across the sky, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift. The river rolls in its rocky bed; When the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip. And oh, the river runs swifter now; How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl! And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore. Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash. Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe! On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel. We've raced the rapid; we 're far ahead! The river slips through its silent bed. Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away. And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings. E. PAULINE JOHNSON FROM "THE BOTHIE OF TOBER NA-VUOLICH." It was the afternoon; and the sports were now at the ending. Long had the stone been put, tree cast, and thrown the hammer; Up the perpendicular hill, Sir Hector so called it, Eight stout gillies had run, with speed and agility wondrous : Run the course too on the level had been; the leaping was over. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. |