Poems (Mitford)/On Maria's winning the Cup

by Mary Russell Mitford

on MARIA'S WINNING THE CUP, AT THE ILSLEY COURSING MEETING, NOVEMBER 9, 1808. INSCRIBED TO W. COBBETT, ESQ.

Oh! for thy flow'rets, May, to deck
With brilliant wreaths Maria's neck!
The blushing rose, the jasmine fair,
The hearts-ease gay, should mingle there;
But chill November's dreary day
Has chas'd each blooming flow'r away;
The sad Arbutus, drooping pale,
And bending to the wintry gale,
Or Laurustinus, modest flow'r!
Alone survive the cheerless hour.
Then round her neck of jetty hue
Entwine the band of heav'nly blue,
Color of triumph! to proclaim
Maria's deeds! Maria's fame!

 And ne'er, Maria! greyhound true,
Like thee, o'er hill and valley flew!
And ne'er like thine, on Ilsley's plain,
Could dauntless spirit vanquish pain!
Fresh and unhurt thy rivals stood,
Thy wounded feet all bath'd in blood;
But, when the destin'd prey was found,
Those little feet scarce felt the ground,
Chas'd the poor victim like the wind,
And left each far-fam'd dog behind;
In vain the fated quarry flies,
Her death decides the envied prize.
Loud the assembled crowd proclaim
My own Maria's well-earn'd fame!
And round her neck of raven hue
Entwine the band of victor blue!