Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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 e’en affects to mourn.