<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339863" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Part I: Visions in the Smoke</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Rest, and be thankful ! On the verge<br>Of the tall cliff rugged and grey,<br>But whose granite base the breakers surge,<br>And shiver their frothy spray,<br>Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath<br>That gathers and flits away,<br>With the surf beneath, and between my teeth<br>The stem of the 'ancient clay'.<br> <br>With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes,<br>With its spell on my dreamy brain,<br>As I watch the circling vapours rise<br>From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies.<br>My vision becomes more plain,<br>Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds<br>Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering,<br>Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds<br>To a shadowy goal careering.<br> <br>In their own generation the wise may sneer,<br>They hold our sports in derision ;<br>Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer,<br>Were allotted a graver vision.<br>Yet if man, of all the Creator plann'd,<br>His noblest work is reckoned,<br>Of the works of His hand, by sea or by land,<br>The horse may at least rank second.<br> <br>Did they quail, those steeds of the squadrons light,<br>Did they flinch from the battle's roar,<br>When they burst on the guns of the Muscovite,<br>By the echoing Black Sea shore ?<br>On ! on ! to the cannon's mouth they stride,<br>With never a swerve nor a shy,<br>Oh ! the minutes of yonder maddening ride,<br>Long years of pleasure outvie !<br> <br>No slave, but a comrade staunch, in this,<br>Is the horse, for he takes his share,<br>Not in peril alone, but in feverish bliss,<br>And in longing to do and dare.<br>Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz,<br>Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare,<br>God send me an ending as fair as his<br>Who died in his stirrups there !<br> <br>The wind has slumbered throughout the day,<br>Now a fitful gust springs over the bay,<br>My wandering thoughts no longer stray,<br>I'll fix my overcoat buttons ;<br>Secure my old hat as best I may<br>(And a shocking bad one it is, by the way),<br>Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay,<br>And then, friend Bell, as the Frenchmen say,<br>We'll 'go back again to our muttons'.<br> <br>There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill,<br>And the clamour has grown less loud,<br>Though the Babel of tongues is never still,<br>With the presence of such a crowd.<br>The bell has rung. With their riders up<br>At the starting post they muster,<br>The racers stripp'd for the 'Melbourne Cup',<br>All gloss and polish and lustre ;<br>And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen,<br>By the bright spring-tide renew'd,<br>Like a ribbon of green, stretched out between<br>The ranks of the multitude.<br> <br>The flag is lowered. 'They're off !' 'They come !'<br>The squadron is sweeping on ;<br>A sway in the crowd—a murmuring hum !<br>'They're here !' 'They're past !' 'They're gone !'<br>They came with the rush of the southern surf,<br>On the bar of the storm-girt bay ;<br>And like muffled drums on the sounding turf<br>Their hoof-strokes echo away.<br> <br>The rose and black draws clear of the ruck,<br>And the murmur swells to a roar,<br>As the brave old colours that never were struck,<br>Are seen with the lead once more.<br>Though the feathery ferns and grasses wave<br>O'er the sod where Lantern sleeps,<br>Though the turf is green on Fisherman's grave,<br>The stable its prestige keeps.<br> <br>Six lengths in front she scours along,<br>She's bringing the field to trouble ;<br>She's tailing them off, she's running strong,<br>She shakes her head and pulls double.<br>Now Minstrel falters and Exile flags,<br>The Barb finds the pace too hot,<br>And Toryboy loiters, and Playboy lags,<br>And the bolt of Ben Bolt is shot.<br> <br>That she never may be caught this day,<br>Is the worst that the public wish her.<br>She won't be caught ; she comes right away ;<br>Hurrah for Seagull and Fisher ;<br>See, Strop falls back, though his reins are slack,<br>Sultana begins to tire,<br>And the top-weight tells on the Sydney crack,<br>And the pace on 'the Gippsland flyer'.<br> <br>The rowels, as round the turn they sweep,<br>Just graze Tim Whiffler's flanks ;<br>Like the hunted deer that flies through the sheep,<br>He strides through the beaten ranks.<br>Daughter of Omen, prove your birth,<br>The colt will take lots of choking ;<br>The hot breath steams at your saddle girth,<br>From his scarlet nostril smoking.<br> <br>The shouts of the Ring for a space subside,<br>And slackens the bookmaker's roar ;<br>Now, Davis, rally ; now, Carter, ride,<br>As man never rode before.<br>When Sparrowhawk's backers cease to cheer,<br>When Yattendon's friends are dumb,<br>When hushed is the clamour for Volunteer—<br>Alone in the race they come !<br> <br>They're neck and neck ; they're head and head ;<br>They're stroke for stroke in the running ;<br>The whalebone whistles, the steel is red,<br>No shirking as yet nor shunning.<br>One effort, Seagull, the blood you boast<br>Should struggle when nerves are strained ;—<br>With a rush on the post, by a neck at the most,<br>The verdict for Tim is gained.<br> <br>Tim Whiffler wins. Is blood alone<br>The sine qua non for a flyer ?<br>The breed of his dam is a myth unknown,<br>And we've doubts respecting his sire.<br>Yet few (if any) those proud names are,<br>On the pages of peerage or stud,<br>In whose 'scutcheon lurks no sinister bar,<br>No taint of the base black blood.<br> <br>Aye, Shorthouse, laugh—laugh loud and long,<br>For pedigree you're a sticker ;<br>You may be right, I may be wrong,<br>Wiseacres both ! Let's liquor.<br>Our common descent we may each recall<br>To a lady of old caught tripping,<br>The fair one in fig leaves, who d——d us all<br>For a bite at a golden pippin.<br> <br>When first on this rocky ledge I lay,<br>There was scarce a ripple in yonder bay,<br>The air was serenely still ;<br>Each column that sailed from my swarthy clay<br>Hung loitering long ere it passed away,<br>Though the skies wore a tinge of leaden grey,<br>And the atmosphere was chill.<br>But the red sun sank to his evening shroud,<br>Where the western billows are roll'd<br>Behind a curtain of sable cloud,<br>With a fringe of scarlet and gold ;<br>There's a misty glare in the yellow moon,<br>And the drift is scudding fast,<br>There'll be storm, and rattle, and tempest soon,<br>When the heavens are overcast.<br>The neutral tint of the sullen sea<br>Is fleck'd with the snowy foam,<br>And the distant gale sighs drearilie,<br>As the wanderer sighs for his home.<br>The white sea-horses toss their manes<br>On the bar of the southern reef,<br>And the breakers moan, and—by Jove, it rains<br>(I thought I should come to grief) ;<br>Though it can't well damage my shabby hat,<br>Though my coat looks best when it's damp ;<br>Since the shaking I got (no matter where at),<br>I've a mortal dread of the cramp.<br>My matches are wet, my pipe's put out,<br>And the wind blows colder and stronger ;<br>I'll be stiff, and sore, and sorry, no doubt,<br>If I lie here any longer.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339863" data-title="Part I: Visions in the Smoke de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="Rest, and be thankful ! On the verge Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, But whose granite base the breakers surge, And shiver their frothy spray, Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath That gathers and flits away, With the surf beneath, and be..."></div> </div> </div>

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