As with destruction's broom fair India's plains--
With northern jargon calmed his eager steeds;
Azim, from Cashmere's rugged lovely vale,
His prancing Babylonians firmly held;
Channa, from Ganges' broad and sacred stream,
With bit and word checked his Nisaean three;
While Devadatta, cousin to the prince,
Soothed his impatient Arabs with such terms
As fondest mothers to their children use;
"Atair, my pet! Mira, my baby, hush!
Regil, my darling child, be still! be still!"
With necks high arched, nostrils distended wide,
And eager gaze, they stood as those that saw
Some distant object in their desert home.

At length the gates open as of themselves,
When at the trumpet's sound the steeds dash forth
As by one spirit moved, under tight rein,
And neck and neck they thunder down the plain,
While rising dust-clouds chase the flying wheels.
But weight, not lack of nerve or spirit, tells;
Azim and Channa urge their steeds in vain,
By Tartar and light Arab left behind
As the light galley leaves the man-of-war;
They sweat and labor ere a mile is gained,
While their light rivals pass the royal stand
Fresh as at first, just warming to the race.

And now the real race at length begins,
A double race, such as the Romans loved.