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    Right Royal
    Right Royal
    Right Royal
    Ebook96 pages1 hour

    Right Royal

    By John Masefield

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateApr 1, 2001
    Right Royal
    Author

    John Masefield

    John Masefield was a well-known English poet and novelist. After boarding school, Masefield took to a life at sea where he picked up many stories, which influenced his decision to become a writer. Upon returning to England after finding work in New York City, Masefield began publishing his poetry in periodicals, and then eventually in collections. In 1915, Masefield joined the Allied forces in France and served in a British army hospital there, despite being old enough to be exempt from military service. After a brief service, Masefield returned to Britain and was sent overseas to the United States to research the American opinion on the war. This trip encouraged him to write his book Gallipoli, which dealt with the failed Allied attacks in the Dardanelles, as a means of negating German propaganda in the Americas. Masefield continued to publish throughout his life and was appointed as Poet Laureate in 1930. Masefield died in 1967 the age of 88.

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      Book preview

      Right Royal - John Masefield

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Right Royal, by John Masefield

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

      Title: Right Royal

      Author: John Masefield

      Posting Date: February 12, 2013 [EBook #6452] Release Date: September, 2004 First Posted: December 15, 2002

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RIGHT ROYAL ***

      Produced by Vital Debroey, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

      RIGHT ROYAL

      by JOHN MASEFIELD

      NOTE

      The persons, horses and events described in this poem are imaginary. No reference is made to any living person or horse.

      JOHN MASEFIELD.

      PART I

      RIGHT ROYAL

        An hour before the race they talked together

        A pair of lovers in the mild March weather,

        Charles Cothill and the golden lady, Em.

      Beautiful England's hands had fashioned them.

        He was from Sleins, that manor up the Lithe;

        Riding the Downs had made his body blithe;

        Stalwart he was, and springy, hardened, swift,

        Able for perfect speed with perfect thrift,

        Man to the core yet moving like a lad.

        Dark honest eyes with merry gaze he had,

        A fine firm mouth, and wind-tan on his skin.

        He was to ride and ready to begin.

        He was to ride Right Royal, his own horse,

        In the English Chaser's Cup on Compton Course.

        Under the pale coat reaching to his spurs

        One saw his colours, which were also hers,

        Narrow alternate bars of blue and white

        Blue as the speedwell's eye and silver bright.

        What with hard work and waiting for the race,

        Trouble and strain were marked upon his face;

        Men would have said that something worried him.

        She was a golden lady, dainty, trim,

        As like the love time as laburnum blossom.

        Mirth, truth and goodness harboured in her bosom.

        Pure colour and pure contour and pure grace

        Made the sweet marvel of her singing face;

        She was the very may-time that comes in

        When hawthorns bud and nightingales begin.

        To see her tread the red-tippt daisies white

        In the green fields all golden with delight,

        Was to believe Queen Venus come again,

        She was as dear as sunshine after rain;

        Such loveliness this golden lady had.

        All lovely things and pure things made her glad,

        But most she loved the things her lover loved,

        The windy Downlands where the kestrels roved,

        The sea of grasses that the wind runs over

        Where blundering beetles drunken from the clover

        Stumble about the startled passer-by.

        There on the great grass underneath the sky

        She loved to ride with him for hours on hours,

        Smelling the seasoned grass and those small flowers,

        Milkworts and thymes, that grow upon the Downs.

        There from a chalk edge they would see the towns:

        Smoke above trees, by day, or spires of churches

        Gleaming with swinging wind-cocks on their perches.

        Or windows flashing in the light, or trains

        Burrowing below white smoke across the plains.

        By night, the darkness of the valley set

        With scattered lights to where the ridges met

        And three great glares making the heaven dun,

        Oxford and Wallingford and Abingdon.

        Dear, in an hour, said Charles, "the race begins.

        Before I start I must confess my sins.

        For I have sinned, and now it troubles me."

      I saw that you were sad, said Emily.

        Before I speak, said Charles, "I must premise.

        You were not here to help me to be wise,

        And something happened, difficult to tell.

        Even if I sinned, I feel I acted well,

        From inspiration, mad as that may seem.

        Just at the grey of dawn I had a dream.

        It was the strangest dream I ever had.

        It was the dream that drove me to be mad.

        I dreamed I stood upon the race-course here,

        Watching a blinding rainstorm blowing clear,

        And as it blew away I said aloud,

        'That rain will make soft going on the ploughed.'

        And instantly I saw the whole great course,

        The grass, the brooks, the fences toppt with gorse,

        Gleam in the sun; and all the ploughland shone

        Blue, like a marsh, though now the rain had gone.

        And in my dream I said, 'That plough will be

        Terrible work for some, but not for me.

        Not for Right Royal.'

                     And a voice said, 'No

        Not for Right Royal.'

                     And I looked, and lo

        There was Right Royal, speaking, at my side.

        The horse's very self, and yet his hide

        Was like, what shall I say? like pearl on fire,

        A white soft glow of burning that did twire

        Like soft white-heat with every breath he drew.

        A glow, with utter brightness running through;

        Most splendid, though I cannot make you see.

        His great crest glittered as he looked at me

        Criniered with spitting sparks; he stamped the ground

        All cock and fire, trembling like a hound,

        And glad of me, and eager to declare

        His horse's mind.

                          And I was made aware

        That, being a horse, his mind could only say

        Few things to me. He said, 'It is my day,

        My day, to-day; I shall not have another.'

        And as he spoke he seemed a younger brother

        Most near, and yet a horse, and then he grinned

        And tossed his crest and crinier to the wind

        And looked down to the Water with an eye

        All fire of soul to gallop dreadfully.

        All this was strange, but then

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