LXVIII. The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; Hark! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar? LXIX. The seventh day this; the jubilee of man. London! right well thou know'st the day of prayer: Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artizan, And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: Thy coach of Hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl, To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow make repair; Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian Churl. LXX. Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the reason why? (15) "Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till morn. LXXI. All have their fooleries-not alike are thine, Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea! Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, Thy saint adorers count the rosary: Much is the VIRGIN teased to shrive them free (Well do I ween the only virgin there) From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be; Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. LXXII. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad archery. LXXIII. Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance, And lowly bending to the lists advance; Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance: If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. LXXIV. In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, Stands in the centre, eager to invade The lord of lowing herds; but not before The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, Can man achieve without the friendly steed, LXXV. Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls, The den expands, and Expectation mute His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. E Now is thy time, to perish, or display He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes; LXXVII. Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail, His gory chest unveils life's panting source, Though death-struck still his feeble frame he rears, Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he bears. |