Then he tried to keep steady. "O steady," he said, "I'm riding with judgment, not leading a raid, And I'm getting excited, and there's Cannonade.

What's the matter?" he shouted, as Royal swept past.

"Sprained!" shouted the man, "Overjumped, at the last."

"Rough luck," shouted Charles. Then the crowd dropped away, Then the sun shone behind him, the bright turned to grey; They were round, the first time, they were streaming away For the second time round. There the starting-post shone.

Then they swung round the curve and went galloping on.

All the noise died behind, Fate was waiting in front, Now the racing began, they had done with the hunt.

With the sunlight behind him Charles saw how they went; No nearer, but further, and only one spent.

Only Kubbadar dwelling, the rest going strong, Taking jump after jump as a bird takes a song, Their thirty lengths' lead seemed a weary way long, It seemed to grow longer, it seemed to increase: "This is bitter," he said. "May it be for my peace.

My dream was a glimpse of the world beyond sense, All beauty and wisdom are messages thence.

There the difference of bodies and the strain of control Are removed; beast with man speaks, and spirit with soul.

My vision was wisdom, or the World as it Is.

Fate rules us, not Wisdom, whose ways are not his, Fate, weaponed with all things, has willed that I fall; So be it, Fate orders, and we go to the wall.

Go down to the beaten, who have come to the truth That is deeper than sorrow and stronger than youth, That is G.o.d, the foundation, who sees and is just To the beauty within us who are nothing but dust.

Yet, Royal, my comrade, before Fate decides, His hand stays, uncertain, like the sea between tides, Then a man has a moment, if he strike not too late, When his soul shakes the world-soul, and can even change Fate,

So you and I, Royal, before we give in Will spend blood and soul in our effort to win, And if all be proved vain when our effort is sped, May the hoofs of our conquerors trample us dead."

Then the soul of Right Royal thrilled up through each hand, "We are one, for this gallop; we both understand.

If my lungs give me breathing, if my loins stand the strain, You may lash me to strips and it shan't be in vain.

For to-day, in this hour, my Power will come From my Past to my Present (and a Spirit gives some).

We have gone many gallops, we two, in the past, When I go with my Power you will know me at last.

You remember the morning when the red leaf hung still, When they found in the beech-clump on Lollingdon Hill, When we led past the Sheep Fold and along the Fair Mile?

When I go with my Power, that will not seem worth while.

Then the day in the valley when we found in the wood, When we led all the gallop to the river in flood, And the sun burst out shining as the fox took the stream, When I go with my Power, that will all seem a dream.

Then the day on the Downland when we went like the light From the spring by Hurst Compton till the Clump was in sight, Till we killed by The Romans, where Blowbury is, All the best of that gallop shall be nothing to this.

If I failed in the past with my Power away, I was only my shadow, it was not my day, So I sulked like my sire, or shrank, like my dam; Now I come to my Power you will know what I am.

I've the strength, you've the brain, we are running as one And nothing on earth can be lost till it's won.

If I live to the end, naught shall put you to shame."

So he thrilled, going flame-like, with a crinier of flame.

"Yet," he thrilled, "It may be, that before the end come Death will touch me, the Changer, and carry me home.

For we know not, O master, when our life shall have rest, But the Life is near change that has uttered its best.

If we grow like the gra.s.ses, we fall like the flower, And I know, I touch Death when I come to my Power."

Now over the course flew invisible birds, All the Wants of the Watchers, all the thoughts and winged words, Swift as floatings of fire from a bonfire's crest When they burn leaves on Kimble and the fire streams west,

Bright an instant, then dying, but renewed and renewed, So the thoughts chased the racers like hounds that pursued, Bringing cheer to their darlings, bringing curse to their foes, Searching into men's spirits till their Powers arose.

Red and rigid the Powers of the riding men were, And as sea birds on Ailsa, in the nesting time there, Rise like leaves in a whirlwind and float like leaves blown, So the wants chased the riders and fought for their own.

Unseen by the riders, from the myriad tense brains Came the living thoughts flying to clutch at men's reins, Clearing paths for their darlings by running in cry At the heads of their rivals till the darlings gat by.

As in football, when forwards heave all in a pack, With their arms round each other and their heels heeling back, And their bodies all straining, as they heave, and men fall, And the halves hover hawklike to pounce on the ball, And the runners poise ready, while the ma.s.s of hot men Heaves and slips, like rough bullocks making play in a pen, And the crowd sees the heaving, and is still, till it break, So the riders endeavoured as they strained for the stake.

They skimmed through the gra.s.sland, they came to the plough, The wind rushed behind them like the waves from a prow, The clods rose behind them with speckles of gold From the iron-crusht coltsfoot flung up from the mould.

All green was the plough with the thrusts of young corn, Pools gleamed in the ruts that the cartwheels had worn, And Kubbadar's man wished he had not been born.

Natuna was weary and dwelt on her stride, Grey Glory's grey tail rolled about, side to side.

Then swish, came a shower, from a driving grey cloud Though the blue sky shone brightly and the larks sang aloud.

As the squall of rain pelted, the coloured caps bowed, With Thankful still leading and Monkery close, The hoofs smacked the clayland, the flying clods rose.

They slowed on the clayland, the rain pelted by, The end of a rainbow gleamed out in the sky; Natuna dropped back till Charles heard her complain, Grey Glory's forequarters seemed hung on his rein, Cimmeroon clearly was feeling the strain.

But the little Gavotte skimmed the clay like a witch, Charles saw her coquet as she went at Jim's Pitch.

They went at Jim's Pitch, through the deeply dug gaps Where the hoofs of great horses had kicked off the sc.r.a.ps, And there at the water they met with mishaps, For Natuna stopped dead and Grey Glory went in And a cannon on landing upset Cross-Molin.

As swallows bound northward when apple-bloom blows, See laggards drop spent from their flight as it goes, Yet can pause not in Heaven as they scythe the thin air But go on to the house-eaves and the nests clinging bare, So Charles flashed beyond them, those three men the less Who had gone to get glory and met with distress.

He rode to the rise-top, and saw, down the slope, The race far ahead at a steady strong lope Going over the gra.s.sland, too well for his peace, They were steady as oxen and strong as wild geese.

As a man by a cornfield on a windy wild day Sees the corn bow in shadows ever hurrying away, And wonders, in watching, when the light with bright feet Will harry those shadows from the ears of the wheat, So Charles, as he watched, wondered when the bright face Of the finish would blaze on that smouldering race.

On the last of the gra.s.s, ere the going was dead, Counter Vair's man shot out with his horse by the head, Like a partridge put up from the stubble he sped, He dropped Kubbadar and he flew by Bed Ember Up to Monkery's girth like a leaf in November.

Then Stormalong followed, and went to the front, And just as the find puts a flame to a hunt, So the rush of those horses put flame to the race.

Charles saw them all shaken to quickening pace.

And Monkery moved, not to let them go by, And the steadiest rider made ready to fly; Well into the wet land they leaped from the dry, They scattered the rain-pools that mirrored the sky, They crashed down the rushes that pushed from the plough.

And Charles longed to follow, but muttered "Not now."

"Not now," so he thought, "Yet if not" (he said) "when Shall I come to those horses and scupper their men?

Will they never come back? Shall I never get up?"

So he drank bitter gall from a very cold cup.

But he nursed his horse gently and prayed for the best, And he caught Cimmeroon, who was sadly distrest, And he pa.s.sed Cimmeroon, with the thought that the black Was as nearly dead beat as the man on his back.

Then he gained on his field who were galled by the Churn, The plough searched them out as they came to the Turn.

But Gavotte, black and coral, went strong as a spate Charles thought "She's a flier and she carries no weight."

And now, beyond question the field began tailing, For all had been tested and many were ailing, The riders were weary, the horses were failing, The blur of bright colours rolled over the railing.

With the grunts of urged horses, and the oaths of hot men, "Gerr on, you," "Come on, now," agen and agen; They spattered the mud on the willow tree's bole And they charged at the danger; and the danger took toll.

For Monkery landed, but dwelt on the fence So that Counter Vair pa.s.sed him in galloping thence.

Then Stormalong blundered, then bright Muscatel Slipped badly on landing and stumbled and fell,

Then rose in the morrish, with his man on his neck Like a nearly dead sailor afloat on a wreck, With his whip in the mud and his stirrups both gone, Yet he kept in the saddle and made him go on.