LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, His gory chest unveils life's painting source 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 wayVain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye-'t is 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- LXXX. Such the ungentle sport that oft invites The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 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, With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, LXXXII. Oh! many a time and oft, had Harold loved, Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. LXXXIII. Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes: LXXXIV. Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng; But view'd them not with misanthropic hate: To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day. TO INEZ. 1 NAY, smile not at my sullen brow; Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 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 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 5 It is that settled, ceascless gloom 6 What Exile from himself can fice? To zones though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life-the demon Thought. 7 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, Oh! may they still of transport dream, Through many a clime 't is mine to go, 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. |