LXXI.

   All have their fooleries; not alike are thine,
   Fair Cadiz, rising o’er the dark blue sea! 
   Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine,
   Thy saint adorers count the rosary: 
   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 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,
   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 moon-struck bards complain, by Love’s sad archery.

LXXIII.

   Hushed 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 arrayed,
   But all afoot, the light-limbed 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 arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more
   Can man achieve without the friendly steed —
Alas! too oft condemned 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: 
   Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
   His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye’s dilated glow.

LXXVI.