| |
(From Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage)
THE LISTS are oped, the spacious area cleared, | |
| Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; | |
| Long ere the first loud trumpet’s note is heard, | |
| No vacant space for lated wight is found: | |
| Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, | 5 |
| Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, | |
| Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; | |
| None through their cold disdain are doomed to die, | |
| As moonstruck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery. | |
| |
| Hushed is the din of tongues,—on gallant steeds, | 10 |
| With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 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, | 15 |
| The crowd’s 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. | |
| |
| In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed, | |
| But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore | 20 |
| Stands in the centre, eager to invade | |
| The lord of lowing herds; but not before | |
| The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o’er, | |
| Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed: | |
| His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more | 25 |
| Can man achieve without the friendly steed,— | |
| Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed. | |
| |
| Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls. | |
| The den expands, and Expectation mute | |
| Gapes round the silent circle’s peopled walls. | 30 |
| Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, | |
| And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, | |
| The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe: | |
| Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit | |
| His first attack, wide waving to and fro | 35 |
| His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow. | |
| |
| Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, | |
| Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; | |
| Now is thy time to perish, or display | |
| The skill that yet may check his mad career. | 40 |
| With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer; | |
| On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; | |
| Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear: | |
| He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes: | |
| Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. | 45 |
| |
| 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 stretched a mangled corse; | 50 |
| Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears, | |
| His gory chest unveils life’s panting source; | |
| Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; | |
| Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears. | |
| |
| Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, | 55 |
| 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: | 60 |
| 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 lies. | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, | |
| Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by. | |
| |
