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The Blood Horse
by Bryan Waller Procter
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 on 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 liv'd -- (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day) --
And died untam'd upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands!
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