LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, And now the Matadores around him play, 'tis past LXXIX. - he sinks upon the sand! Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, He stops he starts disdaining to decline : Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 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 ; LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, aud cheers the Spanish swain In vengeance gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain! 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, With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, LXXXII. 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 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, Though now it moved him as it moves the wise; E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. "Medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." Luc. D TO INEZ. 1. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow; 2. And dost thou ask, what secret woe 3. 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 To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 5. 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. 7. Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, Oh! may they still of transport dream, 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? Here all were noble, save Nobility; None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry! LXXXVI. Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate! Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife !" (") LXXXVII. Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife: 1) Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz. (2) "War to the knife." Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege of Saragoza. War mouldeth there each weapon to his need LXXXVIII. Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, LXXXIX. Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done ; XC. Not all the blood at Talavera shed, Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. And thou, my friend! (1) XCI. since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain 1) The Honourable I*. W**. of the Guards, who died of a fever at Coimbra. I had known him ten years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine. In the short space of one month, I have lost her who gave me being, and most of thore who had made that being tolerable. To me the lines of Young are no fiction: |