THE GAME OF FIVES. SPRIGHTLY Sons of manly Sport, First strike hands, then strike the ball; Now observe the marker's call; For an evening's active sport Fives among the sons of fame Round the world, the seasons through, JOHN FREETH, 1790. Sweep sweep sweep sweep Across tree-shadows grey or green, Sweep sweep - sweep And the strong white eddies leap Where the broad blades run in the burning sun With their sweep-sweep - sweep By mouldering pier-heads that still keep By grand-dams in wide doors asleep And dreaming who shall say what dreams; And further in cool breaths of pine That taste like some old-vintaged wine, Where scarce one ray of the saffron day Through the arch of the incense shrine makes way, Where the shadowy walls an echo make To the sweep-sweep-sweep And the dancing globes in my wake Of tree-top line and gold-leaf shine The tinted image take. Now where great domes of cloud-land drift, Sweep-sweep Now where long shafts of sunlight shift, Through blue and white and golden brown, Where sloping fields of the wheat come down, Where through burnt fume of summer bloom The slender village steeples loom Or broken lie in the bow-wave's curl, Sweep-sweep-sweep And the face of a country girl Round-eyed and brown from the bridge looks down To watch the foam-wreaths whirl. Sweep-sweep - sweep The oar rings true like a crystal bell; The rushes lie in the tiny swell; And the treble tinkling of the song Up where the keen prow shears along Keeps tune and time with the plashing chime, Keeps note for note with the sterner rhyme Of the grumbling gear of the sliding seat. Sweep sweep -- sweep And beneath the hard-pressed feet CHARLES EDWARD Russell. THE HUNDRED YARD DASH. GIVE me a race that is run in a breath, Distance hath charms, but a "ding-dong" means death, Death without flowers and crape. "On your mark !” "Set!" For a moment we strain, Held by a leash all unseen; "P'ff!" We are off, from the pistol we gain Yards, if the starter 's not keen. Off like lean greyhounds, the cinders scarce stir Under the touch of our feet; Flashes of sunlight, the crowd's muffled purr, The rush of the wind, warm and sweet. One last fierce effort, the red worsted breaks, Only ten ticks of the watch, but it makes WILLIAM LINDSEY. IN SPRING. GRASS begins to grow, For to make it level: In the budding thicket; Snowdrops point to pads, Crocuses to Cricket! Soon will stand the Slip Fours and fives in rapture! Find its love, the wicket; Snowdrops point to pads, Crocuses to Cricket! Urchins in the road Bowl with oblong pebbles, Sending to each mate Bursts of happy trebles: Snowdrops point to pads, NORMAN GALE. |