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LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 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 ; Once more through all he bursts-his thundering way
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge land,
Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past—he sinks upon the sand !
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheath'd in his form the deadly weapon lies.
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 pil'd--sweet sight for vulgar eyes
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 mnaid, and cheers the Spanish swain Nurtur'd in blood betimes, his heart delights 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 (must flow. For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm streain
But Jealousy has fed; 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 engage,
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.
Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold lov'd,
Or dream'd he lov'd, since Rapture is a dream ;
But now his wayward bosom was unmov'd,
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream;
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem
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.(16)
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
Though now it mov'd 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 herself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
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.
Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng;
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate;
Fain would he 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,
Pour'd forth this umpremeditated lay,
To cbarms as fair as those that sooth'd his happier day.
NAY, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again; Yet heaven avert that ever thou
Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
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 sooth?
It is not love, it is not hate,
Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bid me loathe my present state, And fly from all I priz'd the most ;
It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see, To me no pleasure Beauty brings;
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me,
It is that settled, ceaseless gloom
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 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,
The blight of life-the demon, Thought:
Let others rapt in plcasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake;
Oh! may they still of transport dream,
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
And all my solace is to know,
Whate'er berides, I've known the worst,
What is that worst? Nay do not ask.
In pity from the search forbear;
Smile on, nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there,
Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu !
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ?
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 pative blood was seen thy streets to dye;
A traitcr only fell beneath the feud ; (17)
Here all were noble, save Nobility;
None hugg'd a Conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry!
Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate!
They fight for freedom who were never free;
A Kingless people for a nerveless state,
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee,
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery;
Fond of a land which taught them naught but life,
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty;
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife,
War, war is still the cry,“ War even to the knife !"(18)
Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know,
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife :
Whate'er keen Vengeance urg'd on foreign foe
Can act; is acting, there against man's life:
From flashing scimitar to secret knife,
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need
So may he guard the sister and the wife,
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed,
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!
LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ;' Look on the hands with female slaughter red; Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; Albeit unworthy of the prey-birds maw, Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain
Long mark the battle-field with bideous awe;
Thus only may our sous conceive the scenes we saw !
Nor yet alas! the dreadful work is done,
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees;
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun,
Nor unortal eye the distant end foresees.
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd;
Strange retribution now! Columbia's ease
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,
While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well asserted right.
When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And freedom's stranger tree grow native of the soil!