Divided at the heart, I seek
    With skill to serve a double call: 
  Though great the Game, it were a shame
    To miss her bosom’s rise-and-fall. 
  Cupid and Cricket, unafraid,
    Must sink their dread of partnership,
  Nor fear to join as stock-in-trade
    The boxwood bail, the honeyed lip.

  Time was when bigotry compelled
    A total worship of the game,
  Before the test had pierced my breast,
    Before the Idol-breaker came. 
  But suddenly the sky let down,
    Escaped from heaven in pink and gold,
  A child to conquer by her gown
    The sport so starkly loved of old.

  Sweet are her little cries, and sweet
    The puzzled look her forehead wears;
  For all she knows the Umpire goes
    Away to Leg to say his prayers. 
  And yet, so velvety her eyes,
    I even find a charm in this,
  And think, How foolish to be wise
    When Ada’s ignorance is bliss!

A BOUNDARY.

What nonsense, Charles! 
Though rather stiff,
And foreign from the style of Twenty,
There’s still enough of cricket stuff
Remaining for the pastime.  Plenty! 
Why, such a creed as now you preach
Is only fit for scoffs and jeers;
Wait till you lose your wind and reach—­
Wait till you come to fifty years.

What nonsense, Charles! 
You still can put
The figures up by bounds and leaps, Sir;
There’s little myth about the pith
You carry in your muscle.  Heaps, Sir! 
Not yet the camp-stool period comes,
With feelings precious close to tears;
Still at your choice the leather hums—­
Wait till you total fifty years.

What nonsense, Charles! 
In you I see—­
You, lord of curl on shaven plots, Sir—­
A magazine of Fourers clean
Prepared to bruise the railings.  Lots, Sir! 
I have a dog’s-eared birthday list
That makes me mock your silly fears
And hope for centuries from your wrist—­
Wait till you come to fifty years.

THE COMMENTATOR.

  The throstle in the lilac,
    Not far beyond the Nets,
  Upon a spray of purple
    His beak severely whets: 
  He hears the players calling,
    He wonders what they’re at,
  As thunder frequent Yorkers
    Against the stubborn bat.

  And as the rank half-volley
    Its due quietus gets,
  The bird begins to carol
    A greeting to the Nets: 
  Amazed at noisy kissing
    Of ball and wooden blade,
  In rivalry he whistles
    A ballad unafraid.

  Right jocund is the music
    That, poured in lovely jets,
  Accompanies superbly
    The heroes in the Nets;
  And sweet the startled pauses
    Amid the royal song
  That come when shout together
    The drive-delighted throng.

  The greatness of the uproar
    Benumbs him, and he lets
  His pulsing bosom ponder
    The tumult in the Nets;
  But soon afresh, while warbling
    His comment on the game,
  He puts all human songsters—­
    Quite easily!—­to shame.