Thy proud, dark eye shall glow less proud, thy step become less fleet.
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck thy master’s hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright—
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light;
And when I raise my dreaming arms to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I startling wake, to feel thou’rt sold, my Arab steed.
Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,
And the rich blood that’s in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein!