Barb of the desert, thy breeding is noble,
Yet hope thou not, though thy mettle were double,
E'er to o'ertake the wing'd giant that races
Fast as the rack which the hurricane chases !
Once more from ambush a horseman outleapeth ;
Thine, gallant gray, is the foot that outstrippeth
Samiel, the sun-born ; now prove what thou darest ;
On for the prize ! 'tis thy master thou bearest !
Rapid, direct, as the ball when it flashes
Out through the smoke-wreath, the fiery Bey dashes
Forth on the game, that yet slacks not nor falters,
Right-ward or left-ward her course never alters.
Sky, air and earth in the noontide are seething,
Stifling and hot is the dust-cloud they're breathing, −
Little reck they of the shrivelling heaven.
Heed not the fire-shower that o'er them is driven !
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