THE WAR HORSE.
AN ARAB CHAUNT.
My steed is black as a night without moon or stars;
He was foaled in vast solitudes;
He is an air-drinker, son of an air-drinker.
His dam also was of noble race,
And our horsemen of the days of powder have surnamed him Sabok.[[55]]
The lightning flash itself cannot overtake him:
Allah save him from the evil eye!
His ears vie with those of the gazelle,
His eyes are the eyes of a woman with wiles,
His forehead resembles that of a bull,
His nostrils the cavern of a lion.
His neck, shoulders, and croup are long,
He is broad in the seat, in the limbs and flanks,
He has the tail of a viper, the thighs of an ostrich,
And his vigorous heels are lifted above the ground.
I reckon upon him as upon my own heart.
Never has mortal mounted his equal.
His flesh is firmer than that of the zebra;
He has the short gallop of the fox,
The easy and prolonged running of the wolf;
He accomplishes in one day a five days' march;
And when he stretches out at full speed,
he strikes the girts with his hocks.
You would say that it was a dart hurled by fate,
Or a thirsty pigeon that precipitates itself
Upon the water preserved in the hollow of a rock.
Yes, Sabok is a war horse!
He loves the chace of savage animals,
He sighs only for glory and booty,
And the cries of our virgins excite his ardour.
When I urge him into the midst of dangers,
His neighing summons the vultures
And makes my enemies tremble;
On his back, death cannot overtake me,
It fears the sound of his hoofs.
Aâtika[[56]] said to me: "Come and be without a companion!"
Docile as the sabre one draws from the sheath,
Sabok hears my spurs, and divines my thoughts;
He cleaves through space like a falcon regaining its nest,
And when I arrive near her whose eyes are languishing,
Alone, in the midst of peril, patient and immovable,
He champs his bit until my return.
By the head of the Prophet, this horse is the resource of caravans,
The ornament of a tent, and the honour of my tribe.
I am an Arab. I know how to command and to combat,
My name protects the feeble and the afflicted,
My flocks are the reserve of the poor,
And the stranger in my tent is named The Welcome One.
The Almighty hath loaded me with his gifts,
But time turns upon itself, and turns back,
And if I must drink one day of the two cups of life,
I will show that adversity cannot humiliate my soul.
My virtue shall be resignation,
My fortune, contempt of riches,
My happiness, the hope of another life;
And if poverty were to grasp me by the throat,
I would not the less glorify Allah.