Produced by Vital Debroey Charles Franksand the Online Distributed Proofreading TeamRIGHT ROYALby JOHN MASEFIELDNOTEThe persons horses and events described in this poem areimaginary No reference is made to any living person or horse                                               JOHN MASEFIELD                          PART I                        RIGHT ROYALAn hour before the race they talked togetherA pair of lovers in the mild March weatherCharles Cothill and the golden lady EmBeautiful Englands hands had fashioned themHe was from Sleins that manor up the LitheRiding the Downs had made his body blitheStalwart he was and springy hardened swiftAble for perfect speed with perfect thriftMan to the core yet moving like a ladDark honest eyes with merry gaze he hadA fine firm mouth and windtan on his skinHe was to ride and ready to beginHe was to ride Right Royal his own horseIn the English Chasers Cup on Compton CourseUnder the pale coat reaching to his spursOne saw his colours which were also hersNarrow alternate bars of blue and whiteBlue as the speedwells eye and silver brightWhat with hard work and waiting for the raceTrouble and strain were marked upon his faceMen would have said that something worried himShe was a golden lady dainty trimAs like the love time as laburnum blossomMirth truth and goodness harboured in her bosomPure colour and pure contour and pure graceMade the sweet marvel of her singing faceShe was the very maytime that comes inWhen hawthorns bud and nightingales beginTo see her tread the redtippt daisies whiteIn the green fields all golden with delightWas to believe Queen Venus come againShe was as dear as sunshine after rainSuch loveliness this golden lady hadAll lovely things and pure things made her gladBut most she loved the things her lover lovedThe windy Downlands where the kestrels rovedThe sea of grasses that the wind runs overWhere blundering beetles drunken from the cloverStumble about the startled passerbyThere on the great grass underneath the skyShe loved to ride with him for hours on hoursSmelling the seasoned grass and those small flowersMilkworts and thymes that grow upon the DownsThere from a chalk edge they would see the townsSmoke above trees by day or spires of churchesGleaming with swinging windcocks on their perchesOr windows flashing in the light or trainsBurrowing below white smoke across the plainsBy night the darkness of the valley setWith scattered lights to where the ridges metAnd three great glares making the heaven dunOxford and Wallingford and AbingdonDear in an hour said Charles the race beginsBefore I start I must confess my sinsFor I have sinned and now it troubles meI saw that you were sad said EmilyBefore I speak said Charles I must premiseYou were not here to help me to be wiseAnd something happened difficult to tellEven if I sinned I feel I acted wellFrom inspiration mad as that may seemJust at the grey of dawn I had a dreamIt was the strangest dream I ever hadIt was the dream that drove me to be madI dreamed I stood upon the racecourse hereWatching a blinding rainstorm blowing clearAnd as it blew away I said aloudThat rain will make soft going on the ploughedAnd instantly I saw the whole great courseThe grass the brooks the fences toppt with gorseGleam in the sun and all the ploughland shoneBlue like a marsh though now the rain had goneAnd in my dream I said That plough will beTerrible work for some but not for meNot for Right Royal             And a voice said NoNot for Right Royal             And I looked and loThere was Right Royal speaking at my sideThe horses very self and yet his hideWas like what shall I say like pearl on fireA white soft glow of burning that did twireLike soft whiteheat with every breath he drewA glow with utter brightness running throughMost splendid though I cannot make you seeHis great crest glittered as he looked at meCriniered with spitting sparks he stamped the groundAll cock and fire trembling like a houndAnd glad of me and eager to declareHis horses mind                  And I was made awareThat being a horse his mind could only sayFew things to me He said It is my dayMy day today I shall not have anotherAnd as he spoke he seemed a younger brotherMost near and yet a horse and then he grinnedAnd tossed his crest and crinier to the windAnd looked down to the Water with an eyeAll fire of soul to gallop dreadfullyAll this was strange but then a stranger thingCame afterwards I woke all shiveringWith wonder and excitement yet with dreadLest the dream meant that Royal should be deadLest he had died and come to tell me soI hurried out no need to hurry thoughThere he was shining like a morning starNow hark You know how cold his manners areNever a whinny for his dearest friendToday he heard me at the courtyard endHe left his breakfast with a shattering callA View Halloo and swinging in his stallRan up to nuzzle me with signs of joyIt staggered Harding and the stableboyAnd Harding said Whats come to him todayHe must have had a dream he beat the bayNow that was strange and what was stranger thisI know he tried to say those words of hisIt is my day and Harding turned to meIt