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.
Horses so matched in weight and strength and speed,
Drivers so matched in skill that as they pass
Azim and Channa seemed a single man.
Timour and Devadatta, side by side,
Wheel almost touching wheel, dash far ahead.

Azim and Channa, left so far behind,
No longer urge a race already lost.
The Babylonian and Nisaean steeds,
No longer pressed so far beyond their power,
With long and even strides sweep smoothly on,
Striking the earth as with a single blow,
Their hot breath rising in a single cloud.
Arab and Tartar with a longer stride
And lighter stroke skim lightly o'er the ground.
Watching the horses with a master's eye,
As Devadatta and Timour four times,
Azim and Channa thrice, swept by the stand,
The prince saw that another round would test,
Not overtax, their powers, and gave the sign,
When three loud trumpet-blasts to all proclaimed
That running one more round would end the race.
These ringing trumpet-calls that brought defeat
Or victory so near, startle and rouse.
The charioteers more ardent urge their steeds;
The steeds are with hot emulation fired;
The social multitude now cease to talk--
Even age stops short in stories often told;
Boys, downy-chinned, in rough-and-tumble sports
Like half-grown bears engaged, turn quick and look;
And blooming girls, with merry ringing laugh,
Romping in gentler games, watching meanwhile
With sly and sidelong look the rougher sports,
Turn eagerly to see the scene below;
While mothers for the time forget their babes,
And lovers who had sought out quiet nooks
To tell the tale that all the past has told
And coming times will tell, stand mute and gaze.
The home-stretch soon is reached, and Channa's three
By word and lash urged to their topmost speed,
The foaming Babylonians left behind,
While Devadatta and Timour draw near,
A whole round gained, Timour a length ahead.
But Devadatta loosens now his reins,
Chides his fleet pets, with lash swung high in air
Wounds their proud spirits, not their tender flesh.
With lion-bounds they pass the Tartar steeds,
That with hot rival rage and open mouths,
And flaming eyes, and fierce and angry cries,
Dash full at Regil's side, but dash in vain.
Fear adding speed, the Arabs sweep ahead.
Meanwhile the pri