The Blood Horse

Gamarra is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, But blown abroad by the pride within! His mane is like a river flowing, And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night, And his pace as swift as light. Look,—how round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float; Sinewy strength is in his reins, And the red blood gallops through his veins: Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O’Brien’s blood itself! He, who hath no peer, was born Here, upon a red March morn. But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine! And yet,—he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green; With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands Where Balkh amidst the desert stands.