ARAB TO HIS STEED
Thou art fit for a son of Ismail!
Thou art fit for the Desert’s own son!
Whose vengeance, so swift, strikes the morning all pale,
At the deeds which the night hath seen done.
Fleeter far than the fleetest, the wind
Would keep pace with thy shadow in vain;
The scorching simoon thy light hoof cannot bind,
When the Caravans melt on the plain.
Alla loves us, my matchless Jereed!
Thou dost joy in the feeling of might,
Which thrills through us both
in the whirl of thy speed,
When the moon can scarce follow our flight.
I shall sweep the desert alone,
Against me no power can prevail;
The bare blade my sceptre, the saddle my throne,
As becomes a true son of Ismail.