ABSTRACT
THE sun is bright, the sky is clear, Above the crowded course, As the mighty moment draweth near Whose issue shows the horse. The fairest of the land are here To watch the struggle of the year, The dew of beauty and of mirth, Lies on the living flowers of earth, And blushing cheek and kindling eye Lend brightness to the sun on high: And every corner of the north Has poured her hardy yeomen forth; The dweller by the glistening rills That sound among the Craven hills; The stalwart husbandman who holds His plough upon the eastern wolds; The sallow shrivelled artisan, Twisted below the height of man, Whose limbs and life have mouldered down, Within some foul and clouded town, Are gathered thickly on the lea, Or streaming from far homes to see If Yorkshire keeps her old renown; Of if the dreaded Derby horse Can sweep in triumph o’er her course; With the same look in every face, The same keen feeling, they retrace The legends of each ancient race: Recalling Reveller in his pride, Or Blacklock of the mighty stride, Or listening to some grey-haired sage Full of the dignity of age; How Hambletonian beat of yore Such rivals as are seen no more; How his old father loved to tell Of that long struggle—ended well, When, strong of heart, the Wentworth Bay From staggering Herod strode away: How Yorkshire racers, swift as they, Would leave this southern horse half way, But that the creatures of to-day Are cast in quite a different mould From what he recollects of old. Clear peals the bell; at that known sound, Like bees, the people cluster round; On either side upstarting then, One close dark wall of breathless men, Far down as eye can stretch, is seen Along yon vivid strip of green, Where keenly watched by countless eyes, ’Mid hopes, and fears, and prophecies, Now fast, now slow, now here, now there, With hearts of fire, and limbs of air, Snorting and prancing—sidling by With arching neck, and glancing eye, In every shape of strength and grace, The horses gather for the race; Soothed for a moment all, they stand Together like a sculptured band, Each quivering eyelid flutters thick, Each face is flushed, each heart beats quick; And all around dim murmurs pass, Like low winds moaning on the grass. Again—the thrilling signal sound— And off at once, with one long bound, Into the speed of thought they leap, Like a proud ship rushing to the deep. A start! a start! they’re off, by heaven, Like a single horse, though twenty-seven, And ’mid the flash of silks we scan A Yorkshire jacket in the van; Hurrah! for the bold bay mare! I’ll pawn my soul her place is there Unheaded to the last, For a thousand pounds, she wins unpast— Hurrah! for the matchless mare! A hundred yards have glided by, And they settle to the race, More keen becomes each straining eye, More terrible the pace. Unbroken yet o’er the gravel road Like maddening waves the troop has flowed, But the speed begins to tell; And Yorkshire sees, with eye of fear, The Southron stealing from the rear. Ay! mark his action well! Behind he is, but what repose! How steadily and clean he goes! What latent speed his limbs disclose! What power in every stride he shows! They see, they feel, from man to man The shivering thrill of terror ran, And every soul instinctive knew It lay between the mighty two. The world without, the sky above, Have glided from their straining eyes— Future and past, and hate and love, The life that wanes, the friend that dies, E’en grim remorse, who sits behind Each thought and motion of the mind, These now are nothing, Time and Space Lie in the rushing of the race; As with keen shouts of hope and fear They watch it in its wild career. Still far ahead of the glittering throng, Dashes the eager mare along, And round the turn, and past the hill, Slides up the Derby winner still. The twenty-five that lay between Are blotted from the stirring scene, And the wild cries which rang so loud Sink by degrees throughout the crowd To one deep humming, like the tremulous roar Of seas remote along a northern shore. In distance dwindling to the eye Right opposite the stand they lie, And scarcely seem to stir. Though an Arab scheich his wives would give For a single steed, that with them could live Three hundred yards, without the spur. But though so indistinct and small, You hardly see them move at all, There are not wanting signs, which show Defeat is busy as they go. Look how the mass, which rushed away As full of spirit as the day, So close compacted for a while, Is lengthening into single file. Now inch by inch it breaks, and wide And spreading gaps the line divide. As forward still and far away Undulates on the tired array. Gay colours, momently less bright, Fade flickering on the gazer’s sight, Till keenest eyes can scarcely trace The homeward ripple of the race. Care sits on every lip and brow. ‘Who leads? who fails? how goes it now?’ One shooting spark of life intense, One throb-of refluent suspense, And a far ralinbow-coloured light Trembles again upon the sight. Look to yon turn! Already there Gleams the pink and black of the fiery mare, And through that, which was but now a gap, Creeps on the terrible white cap. Half-strangled in each throat, a shout Wrung from their fevered spirits out, Booms through the crpwd like muffled drums, ‘His jockey moves on him. He comes!’ Then momently like gusts, you heard, ‘He’s sixth—he’s fifth—he’s fourth—he’s third;’ And on, like some glancing meteor-flame, The stride of the Derby winner came. And during all that anxious time, (Sneer as it suits you at my rhyme) The earnestness became sublime; Common and trite as is the scene, At once so thrilling and so mean, To him who strives his heart to scan And feels the brotherhood of man That needs must be a mighty minute, When a crowd has but one soul within it. As some bright ship with every sail Obedient to the urging gale Darts by vext hulls, which side by side Dismasted on the raging tide, Are struggling onward wild and wide, Thus, through the reeling field he flew, And near, and yet more near he drew; Each leap seems longer than the last, Now—now—the second horse is past, And the keen rider of the mare, With haggard looks of feverish care, Hangs forward on the speechless air, By steady stillness nursing in The remnant of her speed to win. One other bound—one more—’tis done; Right up to her the horse has run, And head to head, and stride for stride, Newmarket’s hope and Yorkshire’s pride, Like horses harnessed side by side, Are struggling to the goal. Ride! gallant son of Ebor, ride! For the dear honour of the north, Stretch every bursting sinew forth, Put out thy inmost soul,— And with knee, and thigh, and tightened rein, Lift in the mare by might and main; The feelings of the people reach, What lies beyond the springs of speech, So that there rises up no sound From the wide human life around; One spirit flashes from each eye, One impulse lifts each heart throat-high, One short and panting silence broods O’er the wildly-working multitudes; As on the struggling coursers press, So deep the eager silentness, That underneath their feet the turf Seems shaken, like the eddying surf When it tastes the rushing gale, And the singing fall of the heavy whips, Which tear the flesh away in strips, As the tempest tears the sail, On the throbbing heart and quivering ear, Strike vividly distinct, and near. But mark what an arrowy rush is there, ‘He’s beat! he’s beat!’—by heaven, the mare! Just on the post, her spirit rare, When Hope herself might well despair, When Time had not a breath to spare, With bird-like dash shoots clean away And by half a length has gained the day, Then how to life that silence wakes! Ten thousand hats thrown up on high Send darkness to the echoing sky, And like the crash of hill-pent lakes, Out-bursting from their deepest fountains Among the rent and reeling mountains, At once, from thirty thousand throats Rushes the Yorkshire roar, And the name of their northern winner floats A league from the course, and more.
