Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

   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;
   Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bull along, scarce seen in dashing by.