Arab and Tartar with a longer stride
  And lighter stroke skim lightly o’er the ground. 
  Watching the horses with a master’s eye,
  As Devadatta and Timour four times,
  Azim and Channa thrice, swept by the stand,
  The prince saw that another round would test,
  Not overtax, their powers, and gave the sign,
  When three loud trumpet-blasts to all proclaimed
  That running one more round would end the race. 
  These ringing trumpet-calls that brought defeat
  Or victory so near, startle and rouse. 
  The charioteers more ardent urge their steeds;
  The steeds are with hot emulation fired;
  The social multitude now cease to talk—­
  Even age stops short in stories often told;
  Boys, downy-chinned, in rough-and-tumble sports
  Like half-grown bears engaged, turn quick and look;
  And blooming girls, with merry ringing laugh,
  Romping in gentler games, watching meanwhile
  With sly and sidelong look the rougher sports,
  Turn eagerly to see the scene below;
  While mothers for the time forget their babes,
  And lovers who had sought out quiet nooks
  To tell the tale that all the past has told
  And coming times will tell, stand mute and gaze. 
  The home-stretch soon is reached, and Channa’s three
  By word and lash urged to their topmost speed,
  The foaming Babylonians left behind,
  While Devadatta and Timour draw near,
  A whole round gained, Timour a length ahead. 
  But Devadatta loosens now his reins,
  Chides his fleet pets, with lash swung high in air
  Wounds their proud spirits, not their tender flesh. 
  With lion-bounds they pass the Tartar steeds,
  That with hot rival rage and open mouths,
  And flaming eyes, and fierce and angry cries,
  Dash full at Regil’s side, but dash in vain. 
  Fear adding speed, the Arabs sweep ahead. 
  Meanwhile the prince springs forward from his seat,
  And all on tiptoe still and eager stand,
  So that the rumbling of the chariot-wheels,
  The tramp of flying feet and drivers’ cries,
  Alone the universal stillness break—­
  As when before the bursting of some fearful storm,
  Birds, beasts and men stand mute with trembling awe,
  While heaven’s artillery and roaring winds
  Are in the awful silence only heard. 
  But when the double victory is gained,
  Drums, shells and trumpets mingle with the shouts
  From hill to hill re-echoed and renewed—­
  As when, after the morning’s threatening bow,
  Dark, lurid, whirling clouds obscure the day,
  And forked lightnings dart athwart the sky,
  And angry winds roll up the boiling sea,
  And thunder, raging winds and warring waves
  Join in one mighty and earth shaking roar.