Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/105

CANTO I.] 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——