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النشر الإلكتروني

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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.

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.

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 stretch'd a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,

His gory chest unveils life's panting source;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears.

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;

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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!

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

The corse is piled

on high

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.

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain.

Waterloo

(From Childe Harold, Canto III)

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

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The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

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A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

Did ye not hear it? - No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is! it is the cannon's opening roar !

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Within a windowed niche of that high hall 20 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival,

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And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear,
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell.
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;

And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,

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And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes;
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills

Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,

alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,

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- the day

The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms
Battle's magnificently stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse

friend, foe,

in one red burial blent!

To Thomas Moore

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

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Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasped upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be- peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

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Stanzas

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;

Then battle for freedom whenever you can,

And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.

Epigram

The world is a bundle of hay,

Mankind are the asses who pull;

Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

On my Thirty-third Birthday, January 22, 1821

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,

I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?

Nothing except thirty-three.

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