The Fancy A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds] |
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| POEMS. |
 | The Fancy |  |
81
POEMS.
83
STANZAS TO KATE,
ON APPEARING BEFORE HER AFTER A CASUAL TURN UP.
“------ A black eye in a recent scuffle,
“For sometimes we must box without the muffle.”
Don Juan.
“For sometimes we must box without the muffle.”
Don Juan.
All punish'd and penitent, down on the knee,
I bend to thee, Kate, to avert an adieu:
Oh, let not thine eyes, love, look black upon me,—
Because mine are forc'd to look black upon you.
I bend to thee, Kate, to avert an adieu:
Oh, let not thine eyes, love, look black upon me,—
Because mine are forc'd to look black upon you.
Am I worse in your eyes, for being worse in my own?—
Are the women to punish, as well as the men?—
I thought you'd have brought, when you found me alone,
Opodeldoc and smiles, to restore me again.
Are the women to punish, as well as the men?—
I thought you'd have brought, when you found me alone,
Opodeldoc and smiles, to restore me again.
84
You know I love sparring and poesy, Kate,
And scarcely care whether I'm hit at, or kiss'd;—
You know that Spring equally makes me elate,
With the blow of a flower, and the blow of a fist.
And scarcely care whether I'm hit at, or kiss'd;—
You know that Spring equally makes me elate,
With the blow of a flower, and the blow of a fist.
You know as you walk'd one damp evening of late,
With your beau at your side,—that a bow in the sky
Arch'd its colours ethereal—and surely, my Kate,
This must be the rainbow I had in my eye.
With your beau at your side,—that a bow in the sky
Arch'd its colours ethereal—and surely, my Kate,
This must be the rainbow I had in my eye.
Forgive me,—and never, oh, never again,
I'll cultivate light blue, or brown inebriety;
I'll give up all chance of a fracture or sprain,
And part, worse than all, with Pierce Egan's society.
I'll cultivate light blue, or brown inebriety;
I'll give up all chance of a fracture or sprain,
And part, worse than all, with Pierce Egan's society.
85
Forgive me,—and mufflers I'll carefully pull
O'er my knuckles hereafter, to make them well bred;
To mollify digs in the kidney with wool,
And temper with leather a punch of the head.
O'er my knuckles hereafter, to make them well bred;
To mollify digs in the kidney with wool,
And temper with leather a punch of the head.
And, Kate!—if you'll fib from your forehead that frown,
And spar with a lighter and prettier tone;—
I'll look,—if the swelling should ever go down,
And these eyes look again,—upon you, love, alone!
And spar with a lighter and prettier tone;—
I'll look,—if the swelling should ever go down,
And these eyes look again,—upon you, love, alone!
The author of Boxiana;—a gentleman of considerable talent and unassuming manners. His writings are replete with gaiety, information, and spirit; and there are few authors who have made history the vehicle of so much life and whim as Mr. Egan. He is an intelligent man in conversation, a clever pedestrian, and a pleasant singer. That man is no contemptible caterer of joy in life's feast, who can walk about and collect knowledge, write poetry on what he has seen,—and sing it with a cheerful and good voice to his friends. Mr. Egan deserves this note, and it is devoted to him.
86
PETER BELLv. PETER BELL.
“A bidding, Ma'am, in two places.”
George Robins.
George Robins.
Two Peters!—two Ballads!—two Bells!—
Ah, which is the serious Poem?
The tales which Simplicity tells,
Are the tales for my heart,—when I know 'em!
Ah, which is the serious Poem?
The tales which Simplicity tells,
Are the tales for my heart,—when I know 'em!
But the Lyrics in these match so well,
And so like is the innocent metre,
That I'm bother'd to death with each Bell,
And lost between Peter and Peter.
And so like is the innocent metre,
That I'm bother'd to death with each Bell,
And lost between Peter and Peter.
Will no one in tenderness lend
A clue to the positive story?—
Or some wretch, in the shape of a Friend,
May waddle away with the glory.
A clue to the positive story?—
Or some wretch, in the shape of a Friend,
May waddle away with the glory.
87
Since my mind must some notion be gleaning,
I'll venture the verses to class:—
The Burlesque,—by its having a meaning;—
The Real,—by its having an Ass.
I'll venture the verses to class:—
The Burlesque,—by its having a meaning;—
The Real,—by its having an Ass.
I pity Simplicity's Poet,—
I pity its tradesmen in town;—
'Tis a dead drug, and few so well know it,
As L---, H---, R---, O--- and B---.
I pity its tradesmen in town;—
'Tis a dead drug, and few so well know it,
As L---, H---, R---, O--- and B---.
88
LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,
THE BRUMMAGEM YOUTH.
Go back to Brummagem! go back to Brummagem!
Youth of that ancient and halfpenny town!
Maul manufacturers; rattle, and rummage 'em;—
Country swell'd heads may afford you renown:
Here in Town-rings, we find Fame very fast go,
The exquisite light weights are heavy to bruise;
For the graceful and punishing hand of Belasco
Foils,—and will foil all attempts on the Jews.
Youth of that ancient and halfpenny town!
Maul manufacturers; rattle, and rummage 'em;—
Country swell'd heads may afford you renown:
Here in Town-rings, we find Fame very fast go,
The exquisite light weights are heavy to bruise;
For the graceful and punishing hand of Belasco
Foils,—and will foil all attempts on the Jews.
Go back to Brummagem, while you've a head on!
For bread from the Fancy is light weight enough;
Moulsey, whose turf is the sweetest to tread on,
Candidly owns you're a good bit of stuff:
But hot heads and slow hands are utterly useless,
When Israelite science and caution awake;
So pr'ythee go home, Youth! and pester the Jews less;
And work for a cutlet, and not for a stake.
For bread from the Fancy is light weight enough;
Moulsey, whose turf is the sweetest to tread on,
Candidly owns you're a good bit of stuff:
But hot heads and slow hands are utterly useless,
When Israelite science and caution awake;
So pr'ythee go home, Youth! and pester the Jews less;
And work for a cutlet, and not for a stake.
89
Turn up the raws at a fair or a holiday,
Make your fist free with each Brummagem rib;
But never again, Lad, commit such a folly, pray!
As sigh to be one of the messmates of Crib.
Leave the P. C. purse, for others to handle,—
Throw up no hat in a Moulsey Hurst sun;—
Bid adieu, by the two-penny post, to Jack Randall ,
And take the outside of the coach,—one pound one!
Make your fist free with each Brummagem rib;
But never again, Lad, commit such a folly, pray!
As sigh to be one of the messmates of Crib.
Leave the P. C. purse, for others to handle,—
Throw up no hat in a Moulsey Hurst sun;—
Bid adieu, by the two-penny post, to Jack Randall ,
And take the outside of the coach,—one pound one!
90
Samson! forget there are such men as Scroggins,
And Shelton and Carter, and Bob Burns and Spring:
Forget toss for sides, and forget all the floggings,—
While shirts are pull'd off,—to make perfect the ring.
Your heart is a real one, but skill, Phil, is wanted;
Without it, all uselessly bravery begs:—
Be content that you've beat Dolly Smith, and been chaunted,—
And train'd,—stripp'd,—and pitted,—and hit off your legs!
And Shelton and Carter, and Bob Burns and Spring:
Forget toss for sides, and forget all the floggings,—
While shirts are pull'd off,—to make perfect the ring.
Your heart is a real one, but skill, Phil, is wanted;
Without it, all uselessly bravery begs:—
Be content that you've beat Dolly Smith, and been chaunted,—
And train'd,—stripp'd,—and pitted,—and hit off your legs!
Of all the great men of this age, in poetry, philosophy, or pugilism, there is no one of such transcendent talent as Randall;—no one who combines the finest natural powers with the most elegant and finished acquired ones. The late Professor Stewart (who has left the learned ring) is acknowledged to be clever in philosophy, but he is a left-handed metaphysical fighter at best, and cannot be relied upon at closing with his subject. Lord Byron is a powerful poet, with a mind weighing fourteen stone; but he is too sombre a hitter, and is apt to lose his temper.—Randall has no defect, or at least he has not yet betrayed the appearance of one. His figure is remarkable, when peeled, for its statue-like beauty, and nothing can equal the alacrity with which he uses either hand, or the coolness with which he receives. His goodness on his legs, Boxiana (a Lord Eldon in the skill and caution of his judgments) assures us, is unequalled. He doubles up an opponent, as a friend lately declared, as easily as though he were picking a flower, or pinching a girl's cheek. He is about to fight Jos. Hudson, who challenged him lately at the Royal Tennis Court. Randall declared, that “though he had declined fighting, he would accommodate Joshua;” a kind and benevolent reply, which does equal honour to his head and heart. The editor of this little volume, like Goldfinch in the Road to Ruin, “would not stay away for a thousand pounds.” He has already looked about for a tall horse and a taxed cart, and he has some hopes of compassing a drab coat and a white hat, for he has no wish to appear singular at such scenes.
91
SONNET ON THE NONPAREIL.
“None but himself can be his parallel!”
With marble-coloured shoulders,—and keen eyes,
Protected by a forehead broad and white,—
And hair cut close lest it impede the sight,
And clenched hands, firm, and of punishing size,—
Steadily held, or motion'd wary-wise,
To hit or stop,—and kerchief too drawn tight
O'er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight
The inconstant wind, that all too often flies,—
The Nonpareil stands!—Fame, whose bright eyes run o'er
With joy to see a Chicken of her own,
Dips her rich pen in claret, and writes down
Under the letter R, first on the score,
“Randall,—John,—Irish Parents,—age not known,—
“Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!”
92
SONNET .
[Where lilies lie uneasily at rest]
Where lilies lie uneasily at restOn the sweet silver pillows of the waves,
And every pebble like a pearled guest
At bottom in the streaming water laves;
When willows hang their sea-green drapery
Loose in the wooing airs,—and swans are white
About the coiling brooks, sweet imagery
Of lover's hearts, inseparable and bright;
Where grass is greenest in the loneliest dell,
Fed by the patient sheddings of a spring;
And where the flowers are all unmatchable
In hue and odour—thither would I wing
My happy spirit,—but the Insolvent Court
Keeps me a prisoner still,—and mars one's sport!
93
SONNET,
ON HEARING ST. MARTIN'S BELLS IN MY WAY HOME FROM A SPARRING MATCH AT THE FIVES-COURT.
Beautiful bells! that on this airy eveSwoon with such deep and mellow cadences,—
Filling,—then leaving empty the rapt breeze;—
Pealing full voic'd,—and seeming now to grieve
In distant, dreaming sweetness!—ye bereave
My mind of worldly care by dim degrees;—
Dropping the balm of falling melodies
Over a heart that yearneth to receive.
Oh, doubly soft ye seem!—since even but now
I've left the Fives-Court rush,—the flash,—the rally,—
The noise of “Go it Jack,”—the stop—the blow,—
The shout—the chattering hit—the check—the sally;—
Oh, doubly sweet ye seem to come and go;—
Like peasant's pipes , at peace time, in a valley!
94
STANZAS.
['Tis vain to grieve for what is past]
“------ And muttered, lost! lost! lost!”
Sir W. Scott, Bart.
Sir W. Scott, Bart.
'Tis vain to grieve for what is past,
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave
No other bliss—yet still I grieve!
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave
No other bliss—yet still I grieve!
The dreadful silence of this night
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppress'd and near;
I stare at it while half reclin'd,
And feel its thick light on my mind.
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppress'd and near;
I stare at it while half reclin'd,
And feel its thick light on my mind.
95
The sweetest fate have I laid waste
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seem'd set apart:
But I was fashion'd to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seem'd set apart:
But I was fashion'd to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.
How could I give up her, whose eyes
Were fill'd with quiet tears,
For many a day,—when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darken'd with just fears,
Of all my vices!—Memory sees
Her eyes' divine remonstrances.
Were fill'd with quiet tears,
For many a day,—when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darken'd with just fears,
Of all my vices!—Memory sees
Her eyes' divine remonstrances.
A wild and wretched choice was mine,
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.
96
To those who plung'd me in the throng
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunn'd my mind with noise,—
I only wish they now could look
Upon my Life's despoiled book.
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunn'd my mind with noise,—
I only wish they now could look
Upon my Life's despoiled book.
When Midnight finds me torn apart
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still Madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still Madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.
My love is lost—my studies marr'd,
My friends disgrac'd and chang'd;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estrang'd:
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined Spirit from its thrall .
My friends disgrac'd and chang'd;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estrang'd:
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined Spirit from its thrall .
These lines to me, who knew Peter's faults and feelings well, are peculiarly touching. They show that, if he had properly directed his mind, he would have been an ornament to society in a higher branch of literature. Pugilism engrossed nearly all his thoughts, and coloured all his writings—but by this little poem it will be seen, that he was in solitude aware of, and grieved at, his own dissipated habits
97
STANZAS ,
WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE IN SEARCH OF A NORTH-WEST PASSAGE, AND ADDRESSED TO A NORTHERN PRINCESS.
Oh! pretty Polar lady!
Doth thy bearded bosom beat,—
That breast so sweetly shady—
With an unaccustomed heat?—
Dark, oily, Polar woman!
Lay aside thy freezing airs,—
And take to something human,
In the room of boors and bears.
Doth thy bearded bosom beat,—
That breast so sweetly shady—
With an unaccustomed heat?—
Dark, oily, Polar woman!
Lay aside thy freezing airs,—
And take to something human,
In the room of boors and bears.
98
I'm an Officer! my jacket
Will tell thee what I am;—
No master of a packet,
My pretty Polar dame!
But a sailor with old Jervis—
A man of royal blue;—
Kings send me on their service,—
And their service send to you.
Will tell thee what I am;—
No master of a packet,
My pretty Polar dame!
But a sailor with old Jervis—
A man of royal blue;—
Kings send me on their service,—
And their service send to you.
Thy Husband, from his swooning
At thy flight, will soon arise;
And go about harpooning
The sorrow from his eyes:
And he'll be no more a rubber
Of wet sockets,—but he'll seek,
With a wiser kind of blubber,
To pacify his cheek.
At thy flight, will soon arise;
And go about harpooning
The sorrow from his eyes:
And he'll be no more a rubber
Of wet sockets,—but he'll seek,
With a wiser kind of blubber,
To pacify his cheek.
Thine eyes are dark and roving,
My pretty Polar sun!
Oh, they're very full of loving—
And extremely full of fun.—
The Mate attracts thine ogling—
But, oh, my fair! thy fate
Don't now be after boggling,—
But take me for thy mate.
My pretty Polar sun!
Oh, they're very full of loving—
And extremely full of fun.—
99
But, oh, my fair! thy fate
Don't now be after boggling,—
But take me for thy mate.
The ruby tide is rushing
To that shadowy cheek,—and, oh,
So heavenly is that blushing,
It shames the ruby snow.
All things thine eye doth snatch at,
With a kind of amorous fear;—
Ah, do not steal the hatchet,—
My pretty Polar dear!
To that shadowy cheek,—and, oh,
So heavenly is that blushing,
It shames the ruby snow.
All things thine eye doth snatch at,
With a kind of amorous fear;—
Ah, do not steal the hatchet,—
My pretty Polar dear!
Give up ice-fields, where no hedges
Are full of bloom or birds,—
Give up bear-skins, give up sledges,
Give up all thy barking herds:
Come to England, let me marry thee,
And trees shall be thy own;
And a neat post-chaise shall carry thee
From Chatham up to town.
Are full of bloom or birds,—
Give up bear-skins, give up sledges,
Give up all thy barking herds:
Come to England, let me marry thee,
And trees shall be thy own;
And a neat post-chaise shall carry thee
From Chatham up to town.
Peter was always amused with Captain Ross's account of the “re-discovery” of Baffin's Bay; and it was after the perusal of a part of the book, that he wrote these lines.
100
STANZAS,
ON REVISITING SHREWSBURY.
I remember well the time,—the sweet school-boy time,—
When all was careless thought with me, and summer was my sleep;
I wish I could recal that school-boy day of prime,
For manhood is a sorry thing—and mine is plunged deep
In faults that bid me weep.
When all was careless thought with me, and summer was my sleep;
I wish I could recal that school-boy day of prime,
For manhood is a sorry thing—and mine is plunged deep
In faults that bid me weep.
I remember well the Severn's fair peerless flight,—
How can I e'er forget her silent glory and her speed!
The wild-deer of all rivers was she then unto my sight,
But now in common lustre doth she hurry through the mead,—
Her flow I do not heed.
How can I e'er forget her silent glory and her speed!
The wild-deer of all rivers was she then unto my sight,
But now in common lustre doth she hurry through the mead,—
Her flow I do not heed.
101
A copse there was of hazels,—a cloud of radiant green,—
A lustrous veil of fruitful leaves to hide the world from me;
It seem'd when I was nutting there to be a fairy scene,
Ah! never more thereafter a fairy scene to be—
Save in sad memory
A lustrous veil of fruitful leaves to hide the world from me;
It seem'd when I was nutting there to be a fairy scene,
Ah! never more thereafter a fairy scene to be—
Save in sad memory
For my school-boy limbs, the river ran riot through the night,
The fields were full of star-like flowers, and overgrown with joy;
The trees around my play ground were a very stately sight,
But some spirit hath gone over them, to wither and destroy—
“Who would not be a boy!”
The fields were full of star-like flowers, and overgrown with joy;
The trees around my play ground were a very stately sight,
But some spirit hath gone over them, to wither and destroy—
“Who would not be a boy!”
102
The Towers of that Old House, in which I did abide
When early days were friends with me,—seem alter'd to my eyes;
They do not stand so solemnly at night in moonlight pride,
As when upon the silver hours by stealth I did arise,
For garden revelries.
When early days were friends with me,—seem alter'd to my eyes;
They do not stand so solemnly at night in moonlight pride,
As when upon the silver hours by stealth I did arise,
For garden revelries.
And in the river's place, and the nut-trees, and the night,
And the poetry that is upon the moonlit earth,—
I have lone rooms, and sad musings, and a fast unceasing flight
Of friends,—of self esteem:—Oh, my heart aches with the dearth
Of honour and of worth.
And the poetry that is upon the moonlit earth,—
I have lone rooms, and sad musings, and a fast unceasing flight
Of friends,—of self esteem:—Oh, my heart aches with the dearth
Of honour and of worth.
103
'Tis vain to visit olden scenes,—they change like other friends,
Their faces are not now the same, the youth of things is gone.
To others they may yet be bright,—and that must make amends:
The Towers to them may yet arise and frown in awful stone—
The Stream, in light, flow on.
Their faces are not now the same, the youth of things is gone.
To others they may yet be bright,—and that must make amends:
The Towers to them may yet arise and frown in awful stone—
The Stream, in light, flow on.
WHAT IS LIFE?
LINES TO ------
And do you ask me “what is life?”—
And do you ask me “what is pleasure?”—
My muse and I are not at strife,
So listen, lady, to my measure:—
Listen amid thy graceful leisure,
To what is life,—and what is pleasure.
'Tis life to see the first dawn stain
With sallow light the window pane:—
To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,
With large pearl buttons all afloat
Upon the waves of plush:—To tie
A kerchief of the king-cup dye,
(White spotted with a small bird's eye)
Around the neck,—and from the nape
Let fall an easy fanlike cape:—
To quit the house at morning's prime,
At six or so—about the time
When watchmen, conscious of the day,
Puff out their lanthorn's rushlight ray;—
Just when the silent streets are strewn
With level shadows, and the moon
Takes the day's wink, and walks aside
To nurse a nap till eventide.
'Tis life, to reach the livery stable,
Secure the ribbons and the day-bill,
And mount a gig that had a spring
Some summers back;—and then take wing
Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's
tongue)
A jade, whose “withers are unwrung;”
Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,
And, from a half pay life of corn,
Shewing as many points each way,
As Martial's Epigrammata,
Yet who, when set a going, goes
Like one undestined to repose.
'Tis life to revel down the road,
And queer each o'er-fraught chaise's load;
To rave and rattle at the gate,
And shower upon the gatherer's pate
Damns by the dozens, and such speeches
As well betoken one's slang riches:—
To take of Deady's bright stark naked
A glass or so,—'tis life to take it!
To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;
Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;
Join the flash crowd, (the horse being led
Into the yard, and clean'd, and fed);
Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis,
(The last a fighting rara avis,)
And, half in secret, scheme a plan
For trying the hardy Gas-light Man.
And do you ask me “what is pleasure?”—
My muse and I are not at strife,
So listen, lady, to my measure:—
Listen amid thy graceful leisure,
To what is life,—and what is pleasure.
104
With sallow light the window pane:—
To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,
With large pearl buttons all afloat
Upon the waves of plush:—To tie
A kerchief of the king-cup dye,
(White spotted with a small bird's eye)
Around the neck,—and from the nape
Let fall an easy fanlike cape:—
To quit the house at morning's prime,
At six or so—about the time
When watchmen, conscious of the day,
Puff out their lanthorn's rushlight ray;—
Just when the silent streets are strewn
With level shadows, and the moon
Takes the day's wink, and walks aside
To nurse a nap till eventide.
'Tis life, to reach the livery stable,
Secure the ribbons and the day-bill,
And mount a gig that had a spring
Some summers back;—and then take wing
105
A jade, whose “withers are unwrung;”
Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,
And, from a half pay life of corn,
Shewing as many points each way,
As Martial's Epigrammata,
Yet who, when set a going, goes
Like one undestined to repose.
'Tis life to revel down the road,
And queer each o'er-fraught chaise's load;
To rave and rattle at the gate,
And shower upon the gatherer's pate
Damns by the dozens, and such speeches
As well betoken one's slang riches:—
To take of Deady's bright stark naked
A glass or so,—'tis life to take it!
To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;
Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;
Join the flash crowd, (the horse being led
Into the yard, and clean'd, and fed);
106
(The last a fighting rara avis,)
And, half in secret, scheme a plan
For trying the hardy Gas-light Man.
'Tis life to cross the laden ferry,
With boon companions, wild and merry,
And see the ring upon the Hurst
With carts encircled—hear the burst
At distance, of the eager crowd.—
With boon companions, wild and merry,
And see the ring upon the Hurst
With carts encircled—hear the burst
At distance, of the eager crowd.—
Oh, it is
life! to see a proud
And dauntless man step, full of hopes,
Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,
Throw in his hat, and with a spring
Get gallantly within the ring;
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,
Taking all cheerings with a smile:
To see him strip,—his well train'd form,
White, glowing, muscular, and warm,
All beautiful in conscious power,
Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;
His glossy and transparent frame,
In radiant plight to strive for fame!
To look upon the clean shap'd limb
In silk and flannel clothed trim;—
While round the waist the kerchief tied
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.
'Tis more than life,—to watch him hold
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,
Over his second's, and to clasp
His rival's in a quiet grasp;
To watch the noble attitude
He takes,—the crowd in breathless mood;—
And then to see, with adamant start,
The muscles set,—and the great heart
Hurl a courageous splendid light
Into the eye,—and then,—the fight!
And dauntless man step, full of hopes,
Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,
Throw in his hat, and with a spring
Get gallantly within the ring;
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,
Taking all cheerings with a smile:
To see him strip,—his well train'd form,
White, glowing, muscular, and warm,
107
Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;
His glossy and transparent frame,
In radiant plight to strive for fame!
To look upon the clean shap'd limb
In silk and flannel clothed trim;—
While round the waist the kerchief tied
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.
'Tis more than life,—to watch him hold
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,
Over his second's, and to clasp
His rival's in a quiet grasp;
To watch the noble attitude
He takes,—the crowd in breathless mood;—
And then to see, with adamant start,
The muscles set,—and the great heart
Hurl a courageous splendid light
Into the eye,—and then,—the fight!
| The Fancy | |