The most renowned of the Matadores were Romero and Pepe-Hillo, the author of a treatise entitled Tauromachia. The first retired from the arena full of honours and considerable wealth. But being desirous of obtaining for his son a canonship, he was commanded, in order to obtain that favour from the queen, Maria Louisa, to re-appear in the arena, on some grand festival. Romero joyfully obeyed; but his age and feebleness were inadequate to cope with the fearful bull, and he would certainly have been killed, had not his friends forcibly withdrawn him from the arena. The will, however, was taken for the deed, and his son was accordingly made a canon. With regard to PepeHillo, like a gallant general, he met his death in the field of his exploits. On a certain occasion, contrary to the opinion of his friends, who knew him to be suffering from a wound in the hand, he appeared in the arena. Unhappily he had to encounter a tremendous animal. The bull hurled him on high twice; and when the unfortunate man fell on the ground he was frightfully gored, and shortly afterwards expired, amidst the most excruciating torments. RUINS. I. THERE is a magic in the days gone by, Which stirs, through all its depths, the pausing soul; When, dim and vast, in wild sublimity, The shades of buried ages round us roll;— When, from the bonds of present being freed, We live through years and empires in an hour,- II. There is a magic in the days gone by, When some hoar, mouldering relic of their pride Rears mournfully its riven frame on high, And forceful points to what hath lived and died; Like the pure memory of our dawning life In childhood's stainless heart devoutly placed; Which, through the whirl of sin, the passions' strife, Lives on, when all around lies dark and waste. III. Memorial of the dead! the gorgeous day Rests like a glory on thy crumbling height; Of the far heaven, and in the gurgling notes IV. But joy claims nought in thee,—my pulses change I enter thy charmed precincts, slow and still. My foot is on the reaching aims of Art;— For this, proud worm! didst thou essay to climb Up Memory's steep, and set thy name apart? V. Where is that name and glory?-let the blast, Which sweeps thy midnight chambers, loud arise And to the skies the haughty secret cast, In words of storm:-I speak; but none replies. Thine echoes have departed—and the air, Which all without is full of glee and song, Wails in the chastened accents of Despair Through the dank ivy, as it creeps along! VI. Now following floods of light intense pervade, As less and less the clustered shafts decline;- Of nicest tracery, choked by clinging weeds, Where in her silent nest the small birds lurk, Or hymn low notes o'er Valour's sculptured deeds. VII. While in the holiest circle, where the burst Of choral chant to Night's dull ear was given, Two graceful trees the sacred soil hath nursed, And reared their heads rejoicingly to heaven. Vigour and youth-decay and tottering age Day's vivid blaze-the darkness of the dead;Strange contrast!-lo, the concentrated page Of Man's all-grasping glory here is spread. VIII. Why do I love this dim religious awe, Each grovelling dream of earth, absorbing, quell? IX. Should not this gracious world, how fairly dressed Sublime as those revealed when Moses trod X. Oh, yes! I love the deepening firmament,— A firmer pledge of Immortality! |