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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, 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, Wraps his fierce eye—'t is past—he sinks upon the sand !
Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
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. Nurtured 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 humbler homes remain,
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream
But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
soul revolts, Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, 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 loved,
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Pleasure's pallid victim! life-abhorring gloom
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 Bcauty's bower he pensive sate,
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day.
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'er I be,
The blight of life-the demon Thought.
And taste of all that I forsake:
And ne'er, at least like me, awake!
8 Through many a clime 't is 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 —
In pity from the search forbear: Smile on-nor venture to unmask
Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there.