archery.

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 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.

LXXIV.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all a-foot, the light-limb'd Matadore
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 arm's a dart, he fights aloof, nor more Can man achieve without the friendly steed, Alas! to oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

LXXV.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty

brute,

And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,

The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe;

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 conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

LXXIX.

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops-he starts-disdaining to decline; Slowly he falls, amidst triumphing cries, Without a groan, without a struggle, dies. The decorated car appears-on high

The corse is piled-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.

Nurtured 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,

suit

stream must flow.

So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed!

LXXXVIII.

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead?
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain;
Look on the hands with female slaughter red;
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain,
Then to the vulture let each corse remain;
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw,
Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleach-
ing stain,

Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe: Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw!

LXXXIX.

Nor yet, alas! the dreadful work is done, Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees; It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, While o'er the parent clime prowls murder unrestrain'd.

XC.

Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera, lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing
toil?

Is this too much? stern critic! say not so: Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'd.

CANTO II.

I.

COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven!—but thou alas!

Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
Goddess of wisdom! here thy temple was,
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,
And years, that bade thy worship to expire:
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow,
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire

Of men who never felt the sacred glow That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow.

II.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?

Gone, glimmering thro' the dream of things

that were:

First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away-is this the whole? A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour? The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower,

XCI.

And thou, my friend!-since unavailing woe Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain

Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, Pride might forbid ev'n friendship to complain : But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! What hadst thou done to sink so peaceably to rest?

XCII.

Oh! known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!
And morn in secret shall renew the tear
Of consciousness awaking to her woes,
And fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier,
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose,
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose.
XCIII.

Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage:
Ye who of him may further seek to know,
Shall find some tidings in a future page,
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe.

of power.