« ForrigeFortsett »
In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare,
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die,
LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongueson gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light pois'd lance, Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, And lowly bending to the lists advance ; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, The crowds' loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, And all that Kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
Can man achieve without the friendly steed,
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
He fies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; [woes. Dart follows dart; lance, lance, loud bellowings speak his
Tho' 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 copynge hand,
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 Nurtur'd in blood betimes, his heart delights In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. What private feuds the troubled village stain ! Though pow one phalanx'd host should meet the foe Enough, alas! in humble homes remain,
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow (must flow. For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green,
many a time, and on, had Harold lov'd,
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom dings.(16)
LXXXIII. Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, Though now it mov'd him as it moves the wise; Not that Philosophy on such a mind E’er deiga'd to bend her chastely awful eyes; But Passion raves herself 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 upresting 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 Beauty's bower he pensive sate,
Pour'd forth this umpremeditated lay, To charms as fair as those that sooth'd his happier day,
1. NAY, smile not at my sullen brow,
Alas! I cannot smile again; Yet heaven avert that ever thou Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain.
I bear, corroding joy and, youth?
Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bid me loathe my present state, And fly from all I priz'd the most ;
4. It is that weariness which springs
From all I meet, or hear, or see, To me po pleasure Beauty brings; Tbine eyes have scarce a charm for me.
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: