Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed:  away,
   Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
   Now is thy time to perish, or display
   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,
   Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
   Though man and man’s avenging arms assail,
   Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
   One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
   Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
   His gory chest unveils life’s panting source;
   Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.

LXXVIII.

   Foiled, 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 triumphant 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 bull 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 phalanxed 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.