  At the sixth green field came the long slow climb, To the Mourne End Wood as old as time Yew woods dark, where they cut for bows, Oak woods green with the mistletoes, Dark woods evil, but burrowed deep With a brock's earth strong, where a fox might sleep. He saw his point on the heaving hill, He had failing flesh and a reeling will, He felt the heave of the hill grow stiff, He saw black woods, which would shelter— If— Nothing else, but the steepening slope, And a black line nodding, a line of hope, The line of the yews on the long slope's brow, A quarter-mile, but the hounds had viewed, They yelled to have him this side the wood; Robin capped them, Tom Dansey steered them With a "Yooi, Yooi, Yooi," Bill Ridden cheered them. Then up went hackles as Shatterer led, "Mob him," cried Ridden, "the wood's ahead. Turn him, damn it; Yooi, beauties, beat him. O God, let them get him; let them eat him. O God," said Ridden, "I'll eat him stewed, If you'll let us get him this side the wood." But the pace, uphill, made a horse like stone, The pack went wild up the hill alone. Three hundred yards, and the worst was past, The fox saw the bulk of the woods grow tall On the brae ahead like a barrier-wall. He saw the skeleton trees show sky, And the yew trees darken to see him die, And the line of the woods go reeling black, There was hope in the woods, and behind, the pack. Two hundred yards, and the trees grew taller, Blacker, blinder, as hope grew smaller Cry seemed nearer, the teeth seemed gripping Pulling him back, his pads seemed slipping. He was all one ache, one gasp, one thirsting, Heart on his chest-bones, beating, bursting, The hounds were gaining like spotted pards The wood-hedge black was a two year, quick Cut-and-laid that had sprouted thick Thorns all over, and strongly plied, With a clean red ditch on the take-off side. He saw it now as a redness, topped With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped, Spiky to leap on, stiff to force, No safe jump for a failing horse, But beyond it, darkness of yews together, Dark green plumes over soft brown feather, Darkness of woods where scents were blowing Strange scents, hot scents, of wild things going, Scents that might draw these hounds away. So he ran, ran, ran to that clean red clay. He saw it now as a redness, topped With a wattle of thorn-work spiky cropped. Still, as he ran, his pads slipped back, All his strength seemed to draw the pack, The trees drew over him dark like Norns, He was over the ditch and at the thorns. He thrust at the thorns, which would not yield, He leaped, but fell, in sight of the field, The hounds went wild as they saw him fall, The fence stood stiff like a Bucks flint wall. He gathered himself for a new attempt, His life before was an old dream dreamt, All that he was was a blown fox quaking, Jumping at thorns too stiff for breaking, While over the grass in crowd, in cry, Came the grip teeth grinning to make him die, The fell like a ruff round each keen head, The pace like fire, and scarlet men Galloping, yelling, "Yooi, eat him, then." He gathered himself, he leaped, he reached The top of the hedge like a fish-boat beached, He steadied a second and then leaped down To the dark of the wood where bright things drown. He swerved, sharp right, under young green firs. Robin called on the Dane with spurs, He cried "Come, Dansey: if God's not good, We shall change our fox in this Mourne End wood." Tom cried back as he charged like spate, "Mine can't jump that, I must ride to gate." Robin answered, "I'm going at him. We'll kill in covert. Gerr on, now, Dane." He gripped him tight and he made it plain, He slowed him down till he almost stood While his hounds went crash into Mourne End Wood. Like a dainty dancer with footing nice, The Dane turned side for a leap in twice. He cleared the ditch to the red clay bank, He rose at the fence as his quarters sank, He barged the fence as the bank gave way And down he came in a fall of clay. Robin jumped off him and gasped for breath; He said, "That's lost him, as sure as death. But I'll kill him yet, if we ride to Spain." He scrambled up to his horse's back, He thrust through cover, he called his pack, He cheered them on till they made it good, Where the fox had swerved inside the wood. The fox knew well, as he ran the dark, That the headlong hounds were past their mark. They had missed his swerve and had overrun. But their devilish play was not yet done. |
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