Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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.