hyme of Joyous Garde,' a recital of the old tragedy of
Arthur and Launcelot; the story of seventeenth-century siege and
gallantry in the 'Romance of Britomarte'; the dramatic scenes from the
'Road to Avernus;' 'The Friends' (a translation from the French); and
the psychological musings of 'De Te' and 'Doubtful Dreams.'

And the galloping rhymes? Yes, there is indeed one galloping rhyme--'How
we beat the Favourite'--with a ring and a rush, a spirit and swiftness
of colour, not approached by the best verse of Egerton Warburton or
Whyte-Melville. Especially vivid and terse is the description of the
latter part of the race, where the favourite (The Clown) overtakes
Iseult, the mare leading in the run home.

'She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,
A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee;
Between sky and water The Clown came and caught her;
The space that he cleared was a caution to see.

'And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
A length to the front went the rider in green;
A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,
Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.

'She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,
I found my hands give to the strain on the bit;
She rose when The Clown did--our silks as we bounded
Brushed lightly, our stirrups clashed loud as we lit.

'A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping,
The last--we diverged round the base of the hill;
His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,
I flogged up the straight, and he led sitting still.

'She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,
And up to his girth, to his breast-plate she drew;
A short prayer from Neville just reached me, "The Devil!"
He muttered--lock'd level the hurdles we flew.'

After a glance at the crowd where, as seen by the rider, all 'figures
are blended and features are blurred'--

'On still past the gateway she strains in the straight way,
Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most!"
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,
And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.

'Aye! so ends the tussle--I knew the tan muzzle
Was first, though the ring men were yelling "Dead Heat!"
A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said "The mare by
A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.'

It was by this piece, according to Marcus Clarke, that the poet's ear