Best prize of better acts, they bear away, | |
And all that kings or chiefs e’er gain their toils repay. | |
LXXIV | |
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array’d, | |
But all afoot, the light-limb’d Matadore | |
740 | Stands in the centre, eager to invade |
The lord of lowing herds; but not before | |
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er, | |
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: | |
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more | |
745 | Can man achieve without the friendly steed – |
Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed. | |
LXXV | |
Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, | |
The den expands, and Expectation mute | |
Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. | |
750 | Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, |
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, | |
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: | |
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit | |
His first attack, wide waving to and fro | |
755 | His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow. |
LXXVI | |
Sudden he stops; his eye is fix’d: away, | |
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear: | |
Now is thy time, to perish, or display | |
The skill that yet may check his mad career. | |
760 | With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; |
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; | |
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: | |
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; | |
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. | |
LXXVII | |
765 | Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, |
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; | |
Though man and man’s avenging arms assail, | |
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. | |
One gallant steed is stretch’d a mangled corse; | |
770 | Another, hideous sight! unseam’d appears, |
His gory chest unveils life’s panting source; | |
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; | |
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm’d he bears. | |
LXXVIII | |
Foil’d, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, | |
775 | Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, |
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, | |
And foes disabled in the brutal fray: | |
And now the Matadores around him play, | |
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand: | |
780 | Once more through all he bursts his thundering way - |
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, | |
Wraps his fierce eye – ’tis past – he sinks upon the sand! | |
LXXIX | |
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, | |
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. | |
785 | He stops – he starts – disdaining to decline: |
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, | |
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. | |
The decorated car appears – on high | |
The corse is piled – sweet sight for vulgar eyes – | |
790 | Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, |
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. | |
LXXX | |
Such the ungentle sport that oft invites | |
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. | |
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights | |
795 | In vengeance, gloating on another’s pain. |
What private feuds the troubled village stain! | |
Though now one phalanx’d host should meet the foe, | |
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, | |
To meditate ’gainst friends the secret blow, | |
800 | For some slight cause of wrath, whence life’s warm stream must flow. |
LXXXI | |
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, | |
His wither’d centinel, Duenna sage! | |
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, | |
Which the stern dotard deem’d he could encage, | |
805 | Have pass’d to darkness with the vanish’d age. |
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, | |
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) | |
With braided tresses bounding o’er the green, | |
While on the gay dance shone Night’s lover-loving Queen? | |
LXXXII | |
810 | Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, |
Or dream’d he loved, since Rapture is a dream; | |
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, | |
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe’s stream; | |
And lately had he learn’d with truth to deem | |
815 | Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: |
How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem, | |
Full from the fount of Joy’s delicious springs | |
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. | |
LXXXIII | |
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, | |
820 | Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; |
Not that Philosophy on such a mind | |
E’er deign’d to bend her chastely-awful eyes: | |
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; | |
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, | |
825 | Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: |
Pleasure’s pall’d victim! life-abhorring gloom | |
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain’s unresting doom. | |
LXXXIV | |
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; | |
But view’d them not with misanthropic hate: | |
830 | Fain would be now have join’d the dance, the song; |
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate? | |
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate: | |
Yet once he struggled ’gainst the demon’s sway, | |
And as in Beauty’s bower he pensive sate, | |
835 | Pour’d forth this unpremeditated lay, |
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. | |
To Inez | |
I | |
Nay, smile not at my sullen brow; | |
Alas! I cannot smile again: | |
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou | |
840 | Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. |
2 | |
And dost thou ask, what secret woe | |
I bear, corroding joy and youth? | |
And wilt thou vainly seek to know | |
A pang, ev’n thou must fail to soothe? | |
3 | |
845 | It is not love, it is not hate, |
Nor low Ambition’s honours lost, | |
That bids me loathe my present state, | |
And fly from all I prized the most: | |
4 | |
It is that weariness which springs | |
850 | From all I meet, or hear, or see: |
To me no pleasure Beauty brings; | |
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. | |
5 | |
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom | |
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; | |
855 | That will not look beyond the tomb, |
But cannot hope for rest before. | |
6 | |
What Exile from himself can flee? | |
To zones, though more and more remote, | |
Still, still pursues, where-e’er I be, | |
860 | The blight of life – the demon Thought. |
7 | |
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, | |
And taste of all that I forsake; | |
Oh! may they still of transport dream, | |
And ne’er, at least like me, awake! | |
8 | |
865 | Through many a clime ‘tis mine to go, |
With many a retrospection curst; | |
And all my solace is to know, | |
Whate’er betides, I’ve known the worst. | |
9 | |
What is that worst? Nay do not ask – | |
870 | In pity from the search forbear: |
Smile on – nor venture to unmask | |
Man’s heart, and view the Hell that’s there. | |
LXXXV | |
Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! | |
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood? | |
875 | When all were changing thou alone wert true, |
First to be free and last to be subdued: | |
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, | |
Some native blood was seen thy streets to die; | |
A traitor only fell beneath the feud;1 | |
880 | Here all were noble, save Nobility; |
None hugg’d a conqueror’s chain, save fallen Chivalry! |