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-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

LXXIX.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheath'd in his form, the deadly weapon lies.
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 pil'd-sweet sight for vulgar eyes-
Four 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.
Nurtur'd 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 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,
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?*

LXXXII.

Oh! many a time, and oft, had Harold lov❜d, Or dream'd he lov'd, since Rapture is a dream; But now his wayward bosom was unmov'd, 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."

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 deign'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 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?
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 unpremeditated lay,

To charms as fair as those that sooth'd his happier day.

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 woe

I bear, corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know

Α

pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe?

3.

It is not love, it is not hate,

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, That bids 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 no pleasure Beauty brings;

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me.