[15]Marco Polo speaks of the breed of horses here attempted to be
described as "excellent, large, strong and swift, said to be of the
race of Alexander's Bucephalus."
[16]It is said that the Mongolians in their career of conquest could
move an army of 500,000 fifty miles a day, a speed out of the question
with all the facilities of modern warfare.
[17]See Bret Harte's beautiful poem, "Sell Patchin," and also an
article on the "Horses of the Plains," in _The Century_, January, 1889.
BOOK II.
She passed along, and then the king and prince
With their attendants wheeled in line and moved
Down to the royal stand, each to his place.
The trumpets sound, and now the games begin.
But see the scornful curl of Culture's lip
At such low sports! Dyspeptic preachers hear
Harangue the sleepers on their sinfulness!
Hear grave philosophers, so limp and frail
They scarce can walk God's earth to breathe his air,
Talk of the waste of time! Short-sighted men!
God made the body just to fit the mind,
Each part exact, no scrimping and no waste--
Neglect the body and you cramp the soul.
First brawny wrestlers, shining from the bath,
Wary and watchful, quick with arm and eye,
After long play clinch close, arms twined, knees locked,
Each nerve and muscle strained, and stand as still
As if a bronze from Vulcan's fabled shop,
Or else by power of magic changed to stone
In that supremest moment, when a breath
Or feather's weight would tip the balanced scale;
And when they fall the shouts from hill to hill
Sound like the voices of the mighty deep,
As wave on wave breaks on the rock-bound shore.
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