Down the valley and up the slope we run from scent to view.
"Steady, you villain—you know too much—I'm not so wild as you;
You'll get me cursed if you catch him first—there's at least a mile to go,
So swallow your pride and ease your stride, and take your fences slow.
Your high-pricked ears as the jump appears are comforting things to see;
Your easy gallop and bending neck are signals flying to me.
You wouldn't refuse if it was wire with calthrops down in front,
And there we are with a foot to spare—you best of all the Hunt!"
Great sloping shoulders galloping strong, and a yard of floating tail,
A fine old Irish gentleman, and a Hampshire post-and-rail.
The sun on the fields a mile below is glinting off the grass
That slides along like a rolling map as under the clouds I pass.
The early shadows of byre and hedge are dwindling dark below
As up the stair of the morning air on my idle wheels I go,—
Nothing to do but let her alone—she's flying herself to-day,
Unless I chuck her about a bit—there isn't a bump or sway.
So there's a bank at ninety-five—and here's a spin and a spiral dive,
And here we are again.
And that's a roll and twist around, and that's the sky and there's the ground,
And I and the aeroplane
Are doing a glide, but upside-down, and that's a village and that's a town—
And now we're rolling back.
And this is the way we climb and stall and sit up and beg on nothing at all,
The wires and strainers slack,
And now we'll try and be good some more, and open the throttle and hear her roar
And steer for London Town.
For there never a pilot yet was born who flew a machine on a frosty morn
But started stunting soon,
To feel if his wires were really there, or whether he flew on ice or air,
Or whether his hands were gloved or bare,
Or he sat in a free balloon.
IN THE MORNING.
Back from the battle, torn and rent,
Listing bridge and stanchions bent
By the angry sea.
By Thy guiding mercy sent,
Fruitful was the road we went—
Back from battle we.
If Thou hadst not been, O Lord, behind our feeble arm,
If Thy hand had not been there to slam the lyddite home,
When against us men arose and sought to work us harm,
We had gone to death, O Lord, in spouting rings of foam.
Heaving sea and cloudy sky
Saw the battle flashing by,
As Thy foemen ran.
By Thy grace, that made them fly,
We have seen two hundred die
Since the fight began.
If our cause had not been Thine, for Thy eternal Right,
If the foe in place of us had fought for Thee, O Lord!
If Thou hadst not guided us and drawn us there to fight,
We never should have closed with them—Thy seas are dark and broad.