A Legend Of Madrid

Translated from the Spanish     Francesca.     Crushd and throngd are all the places     In our amphitheatre,     Midst a sea of swarming faces     I can yet distinguish her;     Dost thou triumph, dark-browd Nina?     Is my secret known to thee?     On the sands of yon arena     I shall yet my vengeance see.     Now through portals fast careering     Picadors are disappearing;     Now the barriers nimbly clearing     Has the hindmost chulo flown.     Clots of dusky crimson streaking,     Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,     Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,     On the matador alone.     Features by sombrero shaded,     Pale and passionless and cold;     Doublet richly laced and braided,     Trunks of velvet slashd with gold,     Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,     Mask more subtle, and disguise     Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh,     Traitor, to deceive my eyes.     Shouts of noisy acclamation,     Breathing savage expectation,     Greet him while he takes his station     Leisurely, disdaining haste;     Now he doffs his tall sombrero,     Fools! applaud your butcher hero,     Ye would idolise a Nero,     Pandering to public taste.     From the restless Guadalquivir     To my sires estates he came,     Wood and won me, how I shiver!     Though my temples burn with shame.     I, a proud and high-born lady,     Daughter of an ancient race,     Neath the vine and olive shade I     Yielded to a churls embrace.     To a churl my vows were plighted,     Well my madness he requited,     Since, by priestly ties, united     To the muleteers child;     And my prayers are wafted oer him,     That the bull may crush and gore him,     Since the love that once I bore him     Has been changed to hatred wild.     Nina.     Save him! aid him! oh, Madonna!     Two are slain if he is slain;     Shield his life, and guard his honour,     Let me not entreat in vain.     Sullenly the brindled savage     Tears and tosses up the sand;     Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage,     How shall man your shock withstand?     On the shaggy neck and head lie     Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly     Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly     Lower, short, and strong, and straight;     Fast, and furious, and fearless,     Now he charges; virgin peerless,     Lifting lids, all dry and tearless,     At thy throne I supplicate.     Francesca.     Cool and calm, the perjured varlet     Stands on strongly-planted heel,     In his left a strip of scarlet,     In his right a streak of steel;     Ah! the monster topples over,     Till his haunches strike the plain!     Low-born clown and lying lover,     Thou hast conquerd once again.     Nina.     Sweet Madonna, maiden mother,     Thou hast saved him, and no other;     Now the tears I cannot smother,     Tears of joy my vision blind;     Where thou sittest I am gazing,     These glad, misty eyes upraising,     I have prayd, and I am praising,     Bless thee! bless thee! virgin kind.     Francesca.     While the crowd still sways and surges,     Ere the applauding shouts have ceasd,     See, the second bull emerges,     Tis the famed Cordovan beast,     By the picador ungoaded,     Scathless of the chulos dart.     Slay him, and with guerdon loaded,     And with honours crownd depart.     No vain brutish strife he wages,     Never uselessly he rages,     And his cunning, as he ages,     With his hatred seems to grow;     Though he stands amid the cheering,     Sluggish to the eye appearing,     Few will venture on the spearing     Of so resolute a foe.     Nina.     Courage, there is little danger,     Yonder dull-eyed craven seems     Fitter far for stall and manger     Than for scarf and blade that gleams;     Shorter, and of frame less massive,     Than his comrade lying low,     Tame, and cowardly, and passive,     He will prove a feebler foe.     I have done with doubt and anguish,     Fears like dews in sunshine languish,     Courage, husband, we shall vanquish,     Thou art calm and so am I.     For the rush he has not waited,     On he strides with step elated,     And the steel with blood unsated,     Leaps to end the butchery.     Francesca.     Tyro! mark the brands of battle     On those shoulders dusk and dun,     Such as he is are the cattle     Skilld tauridors gladly shun;     Warier than the Andalusian,     Swifter far, though not so large,     Thinkst thou, to his own confusion,     He, like him, will blindly charge?     Inch by inch the brute advances,     Stealthy yet vindictive glances,     Horns as straight as levelld lances,     Crouching withers, stooping haunches;     Closer yet, until the tightening     Strains of rapt excitement heightning     Grows oppressive. Ha! like lightning     On his enemy he launches.     Nina.     Oer the hornd front drops the streamer,     In the nape the sharp steel hisses,     Glances, grazes, Christ! Redeemer!     By a hair the spine he misses.     Francesca.     Hark! that shock like muffled thunder,     Booming from the Pyrenees!     Both are down, the man is under     Now he struggles to his knees,     Now he sinks, his features leaden     Sharpen rigidly and deaden,     Sands beneath him soak and redden,     Skies above him spin and veer;     Through the doublet torn and riven,     Where the stunted horn was driven,     Wells the life-blood, We are even,     Daughter of the muleteer!