Serene, assenting, unabashed, he writes our orders down:—
Blue Asphodel on all our paths—a few true bays for crown—
Uncankered bud, immortal flower, and leaves that never fall—
Apples of Gold, of Youth, of Health—and—thank you, Pan, that's all.
He's off along the drifted pent to catch the Windsor train,
And swindle every citizen from Keene to Lake Champlain;
But where his goat's-hoof cut the crust—beloved, look below—
He's left us (I'll forgive him all) the may-flower 'neath her snow!
Verses on Games
(To an Almanac of Twelve Sports by W. Nicholson, 1898.)
Here is a horse to tame
Here is a gun to handle—
God knows you can enter the game
If you'll only pay for the same,
And the price of the game is a candle—
A single flickering candle!
January (Hunting) Certes, it is a noble sport,
And men have quitted selle and swum for't.
But I am of the meeker sort
And I prefer Surtees in comfort.
Reach me my Handley Cross again,
My run, where never danger lurks, is
With Jorrocks and his deathless train—
Pigg, Binjimin, and Artexerxes.
February (Coursing) Most men harry the world for fun—
Each man seeks it a different way,
