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, Fell to his old Pamphylian feast. The people who lived not far away, And they said, as they lay in their carpeted rooms, By every one there was the panther admired, On which was written, in characters broad, But now came the Spring, when free-born Love And makes each thing leap forth, and be He felt the sharp sweetness more strengthen his veins And ere they're aware, he has burst his chains: Now what made the panther a prisoner be? 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, 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, 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. |