Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 2.djvu/99

CANTO I.] LXVIII.

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest:

What hallows it upon this Christian shore?

Lo! it is sacred to a solemn Feast:

Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar?

Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore

Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn;

The thronged arena shakes with shouts for more;

Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn,

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn.

LXIX.

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, one-horse chair,