His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain : His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. THE BULL-FIGHT. SPANISH BALLAD. TRANSLATION OF JOHN G. LOCKHART. EXTRACT. FROM Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Guadalarif of the plain, nor Barons of the hill; But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters clear, Beneath the vast trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer. Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil, And the dun hide glows as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil, His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the foe. Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and near, From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear; His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted tree, Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see. His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night; Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his might; Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock, Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's shock. Now stops the drum, close, close they come; thrice meet and thrice give back; The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black; The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of I come not here to talk. Ye know too well Rich in some dozen paltry villages; Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great In that strange spell, a name. Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder, Cry out against them. But this very day, An honest man — my neighbor; - there he stands; And suffer such dishonor?-men, and wash not Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope, Of sweet and quiet joy. Oh, how I loved WELL, honor is the subject of my story. I was born free as Cæsar, so were you; The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, And bade him follow; so, indeed, he did. Did, from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder, The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber, Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man Is now become a god; and Cassius is A wretched creature, and must bend his body, He had a fever when he was in Spain, And, when the fit was on him, I did mark How he did shake; 'tis true, this god did shake : And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans So get the start of the majestic world, Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings. Brutus and Cæsar: what should be in that Cæsar? That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed; |