Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Then to the crowded circus forth they fare, Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's sad arch ery. LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, 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, 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. LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, The lord of lowling 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 Can man achieve without the friendly steed, Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro LXXVI. Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed : away, The skill that yet may check his mad career. 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. LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; rears, Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. LXXVIII. Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 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-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX. Where the vast neck just mingles with the spine, The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyesFour steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl 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. VOL. I.-D What private feuds the troubled village stain ! Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the foe, Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream must flow, 1 LXXXI. But jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, And all whereat the generous soul revolts, With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queen. LXXXII. 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. (16) LXXXIII. 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-awfu 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 pall'd 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? [day. To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier TO INEZ. 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. 2. And dost thou ask what secret wo I bear, corroding joy and youth? A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe? 3. It is not love, it is not hate, Nor low Ambition's honours lost, |