LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 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 archery. 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 crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 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 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, The den expands, and Expectation mute Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. LXXVI. Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd away, Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the Now is thy time, to perish, or display spear: The skill that yet may check his mad career. On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 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; 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 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-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand! LXXIX. Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes— 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. 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 humble homes remain, 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, His wither'd centinel, Duenna sage! And all whereat the generous soul revolts, Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. (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? |