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THE PANTHER.

BY LEIGH HUNT.

[THIS poem is based upon a passage in the Life of Apollonius of Tyana, where it is said that the panthers, delighting in odours, which they scent at a great distance, quit Armenia, and cross the mountains in search of the tears of the storax, at the time when the wind blows from that quarter, and the trees distil their gums. It is said that a panther was once taken in Pamphylia, with a gold chain about his neck, on which was inscribed, in Armenian letters, "ARSACES THE KING TO THE NYSIAN God." Arsaces was then King of Armenia, who is supposed to have given him his liberty on account of his magnitude, and in honour of Bacchus, who, amongst the Indians, is called Nysius, from Nysa, one of their towns (this, however, is an appellation which he bears among all the oriental nations): this panther became subject to man, and grew so tame, that he was petted and caressed by every one. But on the approach of Spring, he felt the general passion, and rushed with fury into the mountains in quest of a mate, with the gold chain about his neck.]

'HE Panther leap'd to the front of his lair,

And stood with a foot up, and snuff'd the air; He quiver'd his tongue from his panting mouth, And look'd with a yearning towards the South; For he scented afar in the coming breeze News of the gums and their blossoming trees; And out of Armenia that same day He and his race came bounding away,

Over the mountains and down the plains

Like Bacchus's panthers with wine in their veins,
They came where the woods wept odorous rains;
And there, with a quivering, every beast

Fell to his old Pamphylian feast.

The people who lived not far away,
Heard the roaring on that same day;

And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms,
"The panthers are come and are drinking the gums!"
And some of them going with swords and spears
To gather their share of the rich round tears,
The panther I spoke of followed them back,
And dumbly they let him tread close in the track,
And lured him after them into the town,
And then they let the portcullis down
And took the panther, which happened to be
The largest was seen in all Pamphily.

By every one there was the panther admired,
So fine was his shape, and so sleekly attired,
And such an air, both princely and swift,
He had, when giving a sudden lift
To his mighty paw, he'd turn at a sound,
And so stand panting and looking around,
As if he attended a monarch crowned.
And truly, they wondered the more to behold
About his neck a collar of gold,

On which was written, in characters broad,
ARSACES THE KING TO THE NYSIAN GOD."
So they tied to the collar a golden chain,
Which made the panther a captive again;
And by degrees he grew fearful and still,
As though he had lost his lordly will.

But now came the Spring, when free-born Love
Calls up nature in forest and grove,

And makes each thing leap forth, and be
Loving, and lovely, and blithe as he.
The Panther he felt the thrill of the air,
And he gave a leap up, like that at his lair;

He felt the sharp sweetness more strengthen his veins
Ten times, than ever the spicy rains,

And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains:
He has burst his chains, and ah, ha! he is gone,
And the links and the gazers are left alone,
And off to the mountains the panther's flown.

Now what made the panther a prisoner be?
Lo! 'twas the spices and luxury.

And what set that lordly panther free?

'Twas Love!-'twas Love!-'twas no one but he.

26

DESCRIPTION OF A SPANISH BULLFIGHT.

BY LORD BYRON.

HE lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd,

a Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, No vacant space for lated wight is found:

Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye,

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.

Hush'd is the din of tongues-on gallant steeds, With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised

lance,

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,
And, lowly bending, to the lists advance;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance:
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, Best prize of better acts, they bear away,

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade

The lord of lowing herds; but not before

The ground, with cautious tread, is travers'd o'er, Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:

His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,

The den expands, and Expectation mute Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.

Bounds, with one lashing spring, the mighty brute, And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit His first attack, wide waving to and fro His angry tail; tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

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.

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