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LXXVIII Foild, 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 hand,
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
LXXX, Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, 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 foc Enougb, alas! in humble homes remain,
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow (must flow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.(16)
Pleasure's palld 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; 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 charms as fair as those that sooth'd his happier day.
1. 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?
Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bid we loathe my present state, And ily 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.
What Exile from himself can fee?
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 pleasure seem,
And taste of all that I forsake;
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go,
With many a retrospection curst;
Whate'er berides, I've known the worst.
What is that worst? Nay do not ask
In pity from the search forbear;
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.
Here all were noble, save Nobility;
LXXXVI. 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) LXXXVII. 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 soch 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 hideous awe;
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,