Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CRICKET; AN HEROIC POEM, SELECTION, by JAMES DANCE


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CRICKET; AN HEROIC POEM, SELECTION, by                    
First Line: When the returning sun begins to smile
Last Line: And often grasps the well-disputed prize.
Alternate Author Name(s): Love, James
Subject(s): Balls; Sports


WHEN the returning sun begins to smile,
And shed its glories round this sea-girt isle;
When newborn nature, decked in vivid green,
Chases dull winter from the charming scene;
High-panting with delight, the jovial swain
Trips it exulting o'er the flow'r-strewed plain.
Thy pleasures, Cricket! all his heart control;
Thy eager transports dwell upon his soul.
He weighs the well-turned bat's experienced force
And guides the rapid ball's impetuous course;
His supple limbs with nimble labour plies,
Nor bends the grass beneath him as he flies.
The joyous conquests of the late-flown year,
In fancy's paint, with all their charms appear,
And now again he views the long-wished season near.
O thou, sublime inspirer of my song,
What matchless trophies to thy worth belong!
Look round the globe, inclined to mirth, and see
What daring sport can claim the prize from thee!
Not puny Billiards where, with sluggish pace,
The dull ball trails before the feeble mace;
Where no triumphant shouts, no clamours, dare
Pierce through the vaulted roof and wound the air,
But stiff spectators quite inactive stand,
Speechless attending to the striker's hand;
Where nothing can your languid spirits move,
Save where the marker bellows out 'Six-love!',
Or when the ball, close-cushioned, slides askew,
And to the op'ning pocket runs, a cou!
Nor yet that happier game, where the smooth Bowl
In circling mazes wanders to the goal;
Where, much divided between fear and glee,
The youth cries 'Rub!—O flee, you ling'rer, flee!'
Not Tennis' self, thy sister sport, can charm,
Or with thy fierce delights our bosoms warm:
Though full of life, at ease alone dismayed,
She calls each swelling sinew to her aid,
Her echoing courts confess the sprightly sound,
While from the racket the brisk balls rebound.
Yet, to small space confined, ev'n she must yield
To nobler Cricket the disputed field.
O parent Britain, minion of renown!
Whose far-extended fame all nations own,
Of sloth-promoting sports, forewarned, beware!
Nor think thy pleasures are thy meanest care.
Shun with disdain the squeaking masquerade,
Where fainting Vice calls Folly to her aid;
Leave the dissolving song, the baby dance,
To soothe the slaves of Italy and France.
While the firm limb and strong-braced nerve are thine,
Scorn eunuch sports, to manlier games incline,
Feed on the joys that health and vigour give;
Where Freedom reigns, 'tis worth the while to live.
Nursed on thy plains, first Cricket learned to please,
And taught thy sons to slight inglorious ease:
And see where busy counties strive for fame,
Each greatly potent at this mighty game!
Fierce Kent, ambitious of the first applause,
Against the world combined asserts her cause;
Gay Sussex sometimes triumphs o'er the field,
And fruitful Surrey cannot brook to yield;
While London, queen of cities! proudly vies,
And often grasps the well-disputed prize.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net