Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (With Byron's Biography). Lord Byron

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      The seventh day this—the Jubilee of man!

       London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer:

       Then thy spruce citizen, washed artisan,

       And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:

Thy coach of hackney, whiskey,87 one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl,da To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.db

      LXX.

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribboned fair,dc Others along the safer turnpike fly; Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, And many to the steep of Highgate hie. Ask ye, Boeotian Shades! the reason why? 15.B. 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn,88 Grasped in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn.

      LXXI.

      All have their fooleries—not alike are thine,

Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea!89 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,90 Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, Ne 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.

      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 croupe91 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,92 And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the Matadores93 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!dd

      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—de94 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

      LXXX.

      Such