LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, 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, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 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, Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, The corse is piled-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 maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 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, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow. LXXXI. But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen? LXXXII. Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold loved, Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.(16) LXXXIII. Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. 1. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow; Alas! I cannot smile again: Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 2. And dost thou ask, what secret woe 3. It is not love, it is not hate, 4. It is that weariness which springs 5. It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 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. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 8. Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 9. What is that worst? Nay do not ask- 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? None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! |