Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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 croupe 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.