Part 13 (2/2)
Tim Whiffler may yet prove a Tartar, And Bylong's the horse that can stay, But Kean is in trouble--and Carter Is hard on the satin-skinn'd bay; And The Barb comes away unextended, Hard held, like a second Eclipse, While behind the hoof-thunder is blended With the whistling and crackling of whips.
Epilogue
He wins; yes, he wins upon paper, He hasn't yet won upon turf, And these rhymes are but moons.h.i.+ne and vapour, Air-bubbles and spume from the surf.
So be it, at least they are given Free, gratis, for just what they're worth, And (whatever there may be in heaven) There's little worth much upon earth.
When, with satellites round them the centre, Of all eyes, hard press'd by the crowd, The pair, horse and rider, re-enter The gate, 'mid a shout long and loud, You may feel, as you might feel, just landed Full length on the gra.s.s from the clip Of a vicious cross-counter, right-handed, Or upper-cut whizzing from hip.
And that's not so bad if you're pick'd up Discreetly, and carefully nursed; Loose teeth by the sponge are soon lick'd up, And next time you MAY get home first.
Still I'm not sure you'd like it exactly (Such tastes as a rule are acquired), And you'll find in a nutsh.e.l.l this fact lie, Bruised optics are not much admired.
Do I bore you with vulgar allusions?
Forgive me, I speak as I feel, I've pondered and made my conclusions-- As the mill grinds the corn to the meal; So man striving boldly but blindly, Ground piecemeal in Destiny's mill, At his best, taking punishment kindly, Is only a chopping-block still.
Are we wise? Our abstruse calculations Are based on experience long; Are we sanguine? Our high expectations Are founded on hope that is strong; Thus we build an air-castle that crumbles And drifts till no traces remain, And the fool builds again while he grumbles, And the wise one laughs, building again.
”How came they to pa.s.s, these rash blunders, These false steps so hard to defend?”
Our friend puts the question and wonders, We laugh and reply, ”Ah! my friend, Could you trace the first stride falsely taken, The distance misjudged, where or how, When you pick'd yourself up, stunn'd and shaken, At the fence 'twixt the turf and the plough?”
In the jar of the panel rebounding!
In the crash of the splintering wood!
In the ears to the earth shock resounding!
In the eyes flas.h.i.+ng fire and blood!
In the quarters above you revolving!
In the sods underneath heaving high!
There was little to aid you in solving Such questions--the how or the why.
And destiny, steadfast in trifles, Is steadfast for better or worse In great things, it crushes and stifles, And swallows the hopes that we nurse.
Men wiser than we are may wonder, When the future they cling to so fast, To the roll of that destiny's thunder, Goes down with the wrecks of the past.
The past! the dead past! that has swallow'd All the honey of life and the milk, Brighter dreams than mere pastimes we've follow'd, Better things than our scarlet or silk; Aye, and worse things--that past is it really Dead to us who again and again Feel sharply, hear plainly, see clearly, Past days with their joy and their pain?
Like corpses embalm'd and unburied They lie, and in spite of our will, Our souls on the wings of thought carried, Revisit their sepulchres still; Down the channels of mystery gliding, They conjure strange tales, rarely read, Of the priests of dead Pharaohs presiding At mystical feasts of the dead.
Weird pictures arise, quaint devices, Rude emblems, baked funeral meats, Strong incense, rare wines, and rich spices, The ashes, the shrouds, and the sheets; Does our thraldom fall short of completeness For the magic of a charnel-house charm, And the flavour of a poisonous sweetness, And the odour of a poisonous balm?
And the links of the past--but, no matter, For I'm getting beyond you, I guess, And you'll call me ”as mad as a hatter”
If my thoughts I too freely express; I subjoin a quotation, pray learn it, And with the aid of your lexicon tell us The meaning thereof--”Res discernit Sapiens, quas confundit asellus.”
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