rest
All pierce the screen. A second mark was set,
When lo! high up in air two lines of swans,
Having one leader, seek their northern nests,
Their white plumes shining in the noonday sun,
Calling each other in soft mellow notes.
Instant one of the people cries "A mark!"
Whereat the thousands shout "A mark! a mark!"
One of the archers chose the leader, one the last.
Their arrows fly. The last swan left its mates
As if sore wounded, while the first came down
Like a great eagle swooping for its prey,
And fell before the prince, its strong wing pierced,
Its bright plumes darkened by its crimson blood.
Whereat the people shout, and shout again,
Until the hills repeat the mighty sound.
The prince gently but sadly raised the bird,
Stroked tenderly its plumes, calmed its wild fear,
And gave to one to care for and to cure.

And now the people for the chariot-race
Grow eager, while beneath the royal stand,
By folding doors hid from the public view,
The steeds, harnessed and ready, champ their bits
And paw the ground, impatient for the start.
The charioteers alert, with one strong hand
Hold high the reins, the other holds the lash.
Timour--a name that since has filled the world,
A Tartar chief, whose sons long after swept
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