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, 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,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon

He stops-he starts-disdaining to decline:
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears-on high
The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
LIurl 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. 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

must flow.


But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts,
His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage!
And all whereat the


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,
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.

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind,
Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ;
Not that Philosophy on such a mind
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes :
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies;
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb,
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise :

Pleasure's pallid 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 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.

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem,

And taste of all that I forsake:
Oh! may they still of transport dream,

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.

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