I heard once of a Spanish feast:
Within the ring a rustic beast,
A horse, to fight was fated;
In came a tiger from his cage,
Who walked about, his foe to gauge,
And crouching down, then waited.
The people clapped and laughed and cheered,
The tiger sprang, the horse upreared,
But none could see him bleeding;
The tiger tumbling shrinks and backs
Before the horse's rustic whacks,
Lies on his head naught heeding.
Then men and women hooted, hissed,
With glaring eyes and clench?d fist
Out o'er the balcony bending;
With shouts the tiger's heart they tease,
Their thirst for blood soon to appease,
To onset new him sending.
The people clapped and laughed and cheered
The tiger sprang, the horse upreared;
No blood to see was given,
For fortune held the horse too dear,
To him the tiger could not near,
In flying curves hoof-driven.
To say who won I will not try;
For lo, this rustic horse am I,
And on the conflict's going;--
The city, though, where it occurs,
And where it cheers and laughter stirs,
Is known without my showing.
I fight, but have no hate or spite,
From what I love draw gladness bright,
My right to wrath reserving.
It is my blood, my soul, that goes
In every line of all my blows,
And guides their course unswerving.
But as I stand here now to-day,
Nor grudge nor vengeance can me sway,
To think that foes I'm facing.
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