Poems (Stoddard)/The Race
THE RACE.
THE guests were gathered in the ancient parkOf my Lord Wynne, and he was now their markFor wit and gossip—quite the usual way,Where one bestows, and no one need repay."A stumbling-block his pride; his heart 's in strifeBetween two women, which to choose for wife.He's always hovering round that lovely girl,His lawyer's daughter, who will never furlHer flag of pride: she rivals Gilbert there.Now watch their meeting; none more bravely wearTheir beauty, recognize a woman's own,Than Clara Mercome. Gilbert Wynne has sown His wild oats for her sake; yet he delays,And with my Lady Bond divides his days.Who bets on beauty, hedges in on age;Which tries the flight to perch in Lord Wynne's cage?Will Lady Bond or Clara be the queen?For Lady Bond is certain of her lien."He heard this talk while standing by a beech—Hugh Wynne—and planned how he might overreachGilbert and Clara, break the pride of both,Part them for good, or make them plight their troth."Now for a race," he cried, "to Martin's Mill;The boats are here; behold, the lake is still.Here, Gilbert, take your oar; I 'll follow soon,Though sunset 's nigh—to-night is harvest-moon. Let go the rope, the knot 's inside; take these,Arrange a seat, adjust it at your ease.She's here. Miss Mercome, you will help him winThe race, and will not count my wager sin."And he was gone; the pair were face to face."I'll take the oars," he gasped; "we'll win this race."He never felt his heart so in his breast."I hope you will forgive my cousin's jest?"A haughty murmur was her sole reply.No rowers followed. Never did swallows flySo swift, or dip the lake like Gilbert's oars.He was watchful, careless she. "There soarsA heron, quite a feature of your state:Are gems and peacocks, tell me, still in date?How deep the woods upon the water steal,One to the other making soft appeal!" "Not being human, wood and water meetIn their own speech, and soulless things are sweetTogether. So they are to me. I likeTo watch the herons by the sedgy dike;They keep me tranquil; and I love to feedThe pike in yon old pool; they help to lead—Why, here is Martin's Bridge, and yet no boats!Shall we return?" Said Clara then, "There floatsA lily bed beyond; let 's shoot beneathThe bridge, and lilies pull; I want a wreath."He knew the channel narrow; it was dark;But his heart leaped at this relenting mark.He drew his oars up, pointed in the helm,And shot in the cool gloom. He thought no realmOn which the sun had shone was half so bright.And somehow Clara thought it nice as light. The waters swirled so swift that in the noiseClara grew dizzy; Gilbert lost his poise,And lost an oar; with a confusing shockThe boat was grinding—stopped against a rock."Gilbert, my dear, are we not going down?""Dearest, my love, we were not born to drown.Oh, kiss me; we are safe; and grant me nowYourself. I'll gather lilies for your brow;And Hugh will know that I have won the race,And Clara, my dear wife, her rightful place."