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, 

 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 ! 

 BARRY CORNWALL. 



