THE LAY OF THE SEVENTH TOURNAMENT.
All the long week Lawn-tennis balls had rolled
On the green sward beside the echoing line,
Until the last and stateliest of the crowd
Of players there competing, Donald Stewart,
Had fallen at Wimbledon before his foe,
Ernest: the last, because his skill was great,
They hailed the winner of the All-comers' prize.
And graced with large reward and honour meet.
One struggle yet remained,—Ernest with William,
Renshaw with Renshaw, must at last contend,
Equal alike in name and age,—well matched
In strength and skill,—there lightly-clad they stood,
Brother confronting brother,—and the net
Betwixt them. High above them blazed
The goblet, carved with curious imagery,
Unknown save to the initiate, but to these
Pregnant with meaning, mystic, magical,
Prize of the great Lawn-tennis championship,
Which in its deep capacious womb concealed
A thirsty man's allowance long withheld:
This twice had William gained in equal fight,
Winner of two successive tournaments;
And, could he claim the prize but once again,
'Twere his for ever.
Therefore hither came
From Wimbledon and Putney, and the lands
Which lie across the silver stream of Thames,
From far Tyburnia and Belgravian halls,
The strength and manhood of our lusty youth,
The grace and beauty of our matchless maids,
Clothed in rich raiment flashing on the sward
In hues that mocked the butterfly, and made
The rainbow colourless—satin and silk,
Cambric, and lawn, and muslin virginal:
Haply, there also whatsoe'er of strange
Elise, or Worth, or Harberton devise,
The wizards of adornment,—mystic shapes
Dual or indivisible,—the awed bard
Shrinks into silence.
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