Yelping of the heartless years!

Ride—the ringing world's in chase,

Yet we've slipped old Father Time,

By the love-light in your face

And the jingle of this rhyme.

VIII

Ride—for still the hunt is loud!

Ride—our steeds can hold their own!

Yours, a satin sea-wave, proud,

Queen, to be your living throne,

Glittering with the foam and fire

Churned from seas whence Venus rose,

Tow'rds the gates of our desire

Gloriously burning flows.

IX

He, with streaming flanks a-smoke,

Needs no spur of blood-stained steel:

Only that soft thudding stroke

Once, o' the little satin heel,

Drives his mighty heart, your slave,

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