the last. 
  Their arrows fly.  The last swan left its mates
  As if sore wounded, while the first came down
  Like a great eagle swooping for its prey,
  And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced,
  Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood. 
  Whereat the people shout, and shout again,
  Until the hills repeat the mighty sound. 
  The prince gently but sadly raised the bird,
  Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear,
  And gave to one to care for and to cure.

  And now the people for the chariot-race
  Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand,
  By folding doors hid from the public view,
  The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits
  And paw the ground, impatient for the start. 
  The charioteers alert, with one strong hand
  Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash. 
  Timour—­a name that since has filled the world,
  A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept
  As with destruction’s broom fair India’s plains—­
  With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds;
  Azim, from Cashmere’s rugged lovely vale,
  His prancing Babylonians firmly held;
  Channa, from Ganges’ broad and sacred stream,
  With bit and word checked his Nisaean three;
  While Devadatta, cousin to the prince,
  Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms
  As fondest mothers to their children use;
  “Atair, my pet!  Mira, my baby, hush! 
  Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!”
  With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide,
  And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw
  Some distant object in their desert home.

  At length the gates open as of themselves,
  When at the trumpet’s sound the steeds dash forth
  As by one spirit moved, under tight rein,
  And neck and neck they thunder down the plain,
  While rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels. 
  But weight, not lack of nerve or spirit, tells;
  Azim and Channa urge their steeds in vain,
  By Tartar and light Arab left behind
  As the light galley leaves the man-of-war;
  They sweat and labor ere a mile is gained,
  While their light rivals pass the royal stand
  Fresh as at first, just warming to the race.

  And now the real race at length begins,
  A double race, such as the Romans loved. 
  Horses so matched in weight and strength and speed,
  Drivers so matched in skill that as they pass
  Azim and Channa seemed a single man. 
  Timour and Devadatta, side by side,
  Wheel almost touching wheel, dash far ahead.

  Azim and Channa, left so far behind,
  No longer urge a race already lost. 
  The Babylonian and Nisaean steeds,
  No longer pressed so far beyond their power,
  With long and even strides sweep smoothly on,
  Striking the earth as with a single blow,
  Their hot breath rising in a single cloud.