30 35 40 45 50 55 Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away, The skill that yet may check his mad career. Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his woes. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse; His gory chest unveils life's panting source; Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; 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, 60 And now the Matadores around him play, 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, 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 Waterloo (From Childe Harold, Canto III) There was a sound of revelry by night, The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 5 A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 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; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is! it is the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall 20 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, 25 30 35 40 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear, Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, And near, the beat of the alarming drum While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, 45 Or whispering with white lips "The foe! They come ! they come!" 50 And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering" rose, The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills 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, 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, - the day The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, friend, foe, in one red burial blent! To Thomas Moore My boat is on the shore, Here's a sigh to those who love me, Though the ocean roar around me, It hath springs that may be won. 10 5 15 20 20 Were't the last drop in the well, '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, 5 Stanzas When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 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. Nothing except thirty-three. |