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