Strike aloud the signal drum, to call
Each well trained racer from his stall;
Drive back the anxious crowd from where
Rider and steed would both prepare,
For warm contention in the race;

Let all be calm, and silence grace
The scene,—for now ‘tis wrong to let
Vain noise the coursers spirits fret;
The judges now must nicely weigh,
What deeply might affect the day;
The rider—in his garment neat;
His saddle, bridle,—all must meet
The scrutiny of rule;—mount, mount,—
Urged by expectancy, the fount
Of joy will burst,—it can’t lie still,
When so much tends its source to fill.
Are all prepared?—they are,—then go;—
Away, away;—the torrent’s flow
Is not more rapid than its course,
Than is each proud, ambitious horse,
That springs elastic in the race;
And see, oh! See,—over whose face,—
Upon the circle of whose brow,
Does sorrow darkly lower now?
Man here finds something to destroy
The stings of life; and full soul’d joy
Hath found a tone in woman’s voice,
Which tells, how she, too, can rejoice.

See how they struggle, side by side,
As if together they were tied;
The smoke-like breath each nostril breathes,
Meets warmly, and together wreathes;
The riders now, in kindness bland,
May speed them onward, hand in hand;
Were not their tongues by caution bound,
They might exchange their greeting sound;—
But one is passing,—yet they both,
To yield, or check their pace seem loth;
A neck of one’s uncover’d,—then—
‘Tis hiding—now ‘tis hid again;—
Once more together, on they move,—
But now they must their power prove;
The goal is seen, the prize is there,
And those who will their speed compare;—
The eagle, as he downward darts,
To seize his prey, but scarcely parts
The air more true and quick, than do
These noble steeds, contending who
Shall win the palm, the golden prize,
And the good fame that never dies.

Onward, and swifter—see—they come;
Loud words have dwindled to a hum;
Intenseness reigns through hope or fear;
For doubtless issue hang not there;—
They’re up—they pass,—the race is done—
And justice crowns the favored one;
Yet must retain some little meed
Of praise, to give that vanquished steed,
So valiantly he did his part,
For oft he did induce the heart
Of each who “back’d” him to delight,
As they beheld his rapid flight.

But mark the conqueror, see him move,
As if he did his calling love;
It seems a soul doth truly lie
Deep in his heart,—behold his eye,
Sparkling with intellectual rays,
As if full well he knew the praise,
Arising now so high and loud,
Were his—and makes him feel thus proud.

By HAROLD

American Turf Register and Sporting Magazine 6, no. 10 (June 1835): 506-8, reprinted from The Georgian.