Fleet is the game they will hunt on the morrow ;
Rider and horse, let them hasten to borrow
Strength from repose, ere the white robe of morning,
Seen from afar, of the chase giveth warning.
Wake ! for her silvery mantle is gleaming,
O'er it her tresses of amber are streaming,
Upward on iris-hued pinions she springeth,
Pearls o'er oasis and palm-grove she flingeth !
Cast off the haīk ! Be your girdle the tightest,
Saddle and bridle and stirrup the lightest,
Look to the weight of the weapon ye carry,
Lose not a moment ! Lo, yonder the quarry !
Swift as a shaft from the bow of Apollo,
Forth darts the ostrich, the snorting steeds follow ;
Sail-like, her white, curling pinions she spreadeth —
Is it the earth, or the air that she treadeth ?