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George Darley – The Unicorn

 Lo, in the mute, mid wilderness,
What wondrous creature? - of no kind -
His burning lair doth largely press -
Gaze fixed – and feeding on the wind?

His fell is of the desert dye
And tissue adjust, dun yellow and dry
Compact of living sands; his eye
Black luminary, soft and mild,
With its dark lustre cools the wild,
From his stately forehead springs
Piercing to heaven, a radiant horn
Lo, the composer of lion kings.

The steed self armed, the Unicorn.

Ever heard of, never seen
With a main of sands between
Him and approach, his lonely pride
To course his arid arena wide
Free as the hurricane, or lie here
Lord of his couch as his career.

Wherefore should this foot profane
His sanctuary, still domain?
Let me turn, ere eye so bland
Perchance be fire shot, like heaven's brand
To wither my boldness.  Northward now
Behind the white star on his brow
Glittering straight against the sun
Far athwart his lair I run