vague and undefin’d,
Compell’d me, and with magic might subdued my soul and mind;
There was a something in her air that drew the spirit nigh,
Beyond the common witchery that dwells in woman’s eye! 
With reverence deep, like any slave of that peculiar land,
I bowed my forehead to the earth, and kissed the arid sand;
And then I touched her garment’s hem, devoutly as a Dervise,
Predestinated (so I felt) forever to her service.

Nor was I wrong in auguring thus my fortune from her face,
She knew me, seemingly, as well as any of her race;
“Welcome!” she cried, as I uprose submissive to my feet;
“It was ordained that you and I should in this desert meet! 
Aye, ages since, before thy soul had burst its prison bars,
This interview was promis’d in the language of the stars!”
Then clapping, as the Easterns wont, her all-commanding hands,
A score of mounted Arabs came fast spurring o’er the sands,
Nor rein’d they up their foaming steeds till in my very face
They blew the breath impetuous, and panting from the race. 
“Fear nought,” exclaimed the radiant one, as I sprang off aloof,
“Thy precious frame need never fear a blow from horse’s hoof! 
Thy natal star was fortunate as any orb of birth,
And fate hath held in store for thee the rarest gift of earth.” 
Then turning to the dusky men, that humbly waited near,
She cried, “Go bring the BEAUTIFUL—­for lo! the MAN is here!”

Off went th’ obsequious train as swift as Arab hoofs could flee,
But Fancy fond outraced them all, with bridle loose and free,
And brought me back, for love’s attack, some fair Circassian bride,
Or Georgian girl, the Harem’s boast, and fit for sultan’s side;
Methought I lifted up her veil, and saw dark eyes beneath,
Mild as gazelle’s, a snowy brow, ripe lips, and pearly teeth,
A swanlike neck, a shoulder round, full bosom, and a waist
Not too compact, and rounded limbs, to oriental taste. 
Methought—­but here, alas! alas! the airy dream to blight,
Behold the Arabs leading up a mare of milky white! 
To tell the truth, without reserve, evasion, or remorse,
The last of creatures in my love or liking is a horse: 
Whether in early youth some kick untimely laid me flat,
Whether from born antipathy, as some dislike a cat,
I never yet could bear the kind, from Meux’s giant steeds
Down to those little bearish cubs of Shetland’s shaggy breeds;—­
As for a warhorse, he that can bestride one is a hero,
Merely to look at such a sight my courage sinks to zero.

With lightning eyes, and thunder mane, and hurricanes of legs,
Tempestuous tail—­to picture him description vainly begs! 
His fiery nostrils send forth clouds of smoke instead of breath—­
Nay, was it not a Horse that bore the grisly Shape of Death? 
Judge then how cold an ague-fit of agony was mine
To see the mistress of my fate, imperious, make a sign
To which my own foreboding soul the cruel sense supplied: 
“Mount, happy man, and run away with your Arabian bride!”