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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339833" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Legend of Madrid</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Francesca</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Crush'd and throng'd are all the places<br>In our amphitheatre,<br>'Midst a sea of swarming faces<br>I can yet distinguish her ; <br>Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina ?<br>Is my secret known to thee ?<br>On the sands of yon arena<br>I shall yet my vengeance see.<br>Now through portals fast careering<br>Picadors are disappearing ;<br>Now the barriers nimbly clearing<br>Has the hindmost chulo flown.<br>Clots of dusky crimson streaking,<br>Brindled flanks and haunches reeking,<br>Wheels the wild bull, vengeance seeking,<br>On the matador alone.<br> <br>Features by sombrero shaded,<br>Pale and passionless and cold ;<br>Doublet richly laced and braided,<br>Trunks of velvet slash'd with gold,<br>Blood-red scarf, and bare Toledo,—<br>Mask more subtle, and disguise<br>Far less shallow, thou dost need, oh<br>Traitor, to deceive my eyes.<br>Shouts of noisy acclamation,<br>Breathing savage expectation,<br>Greet him while he takes his station<br>Leisurely, disdaining haste;<br>Now he doffs his tall sombrero,<br>Fools ! applaud your butcher hero,<br>Ye would idolize a Nero,<br>Pandering to public taste.<br>From the restless Guadalquivir<br>To my sire's estates he came,<br>Woo'd and won me, how I shiver !<br>Though my temples burn with shame.<br>I, a proud and high-born lady,<br>Daughter of an ancient race,<br>'Neath the vine and olive shade I<br>Yielded to a churl's embrace.<br>To a churl my vows were plighted,<br>Well my madness he requited,<br>Since, by priestly ties, united<br>To the muleteer's child,<br>And my prayers are wafted o'er him,<br>That the bull may crush and gore him,<br>Since the love that once I bore him<br>Has been changed to hatred wild. <br> <br>Nina<br> <br>Save him ! aid him ! oh Madonna !<br>Two are slain if he is slain ;<br>Shield his life, and guard his honour,<br>Let me not entreat in vain.<br>Sullenly the brindled savage<br>Tears and tosses up the sand ;<br>Horns that rend and hoofs that ravage,<br>How shall man your shock withstand ?<br>On the shaggy neck and head lie<br>Frothy flakes, the eyeballs redly<br>Flash, the horns so sharp and deadly<br>Lower, short, and strong, and straight ;<br>Fast, and furious, and fearless,<br>Now he charges ;—Virgin peerless,<br>Lifting lids all dry and tearless,<br>At thy throne I supplicate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Francesca<br> <br>Cool and calm the perjured varlet<br>Stands on strongly planted heel,<br>In his left a strip of scarlet,<br>In his right a streak of steel ;<br>Ah ! the monster topples over,<br>Till his haunches strike the plain !—<br>Low-born clown and lying lover,<br>Thou hast conquer'd once again.<br> <br>Nina<br> <br>Sweet Madonna, Maiden Mother,<br>Thou hast saved him, and no other ;<br>Now the tears I cannot smother,<br>Tears of joy my vision blind ;<br>Where thou sittest I am gazing,<br>These glad, misty eyes upraising,<br>I have pray'd, and I am praising,<br>Bless thee ! bless thee ! Virgin kind.<br> <br>Francesca<br> <br>While the crowd still sways and surges,<br>Ere the applauding shouts have ceas'd,<br>See, the second bull emerges—<br>'Tis the famed Cordovan beast,—<br>By the picador ungoaded,<br>Scathless of the chulo's dart.<br>Slay him, and with guerdon loaded,<br>And with honours crown'd depart.<br>No vain brutish strife he wages,<br>Never uselessly he rages,<br>And his cunning, as he ages,<br>With his hatred seems to grow ;<br>Though he stands amid the cheering,<br>Sluggish to the eye appearing,<br>Few will venture on the spearing<br>Of so resolute a foe.<br> <br>Nina<br> <br>Courage, there is little danger,<br>Yonder dull-eyed craven seems<br>Fitter far for stall and manger<br>Than for scarf and blade that gleams ;<br>Shorter, and of frame less massive,<br>Than his comrade lying low,<br>Tame, and cowardly, and passive,—<br>He will prove a feebler foe.<br>I have done with doubt and anguish,<br>Fears like dews in sunshine languish,<br>Courage, husband, we shall vanquish,<br>Thou art calm and so am I.<br>For the rush he has not waited,<br>On he strides with step elated,<br>And the steel with blood unsated,<br>Leaps to end the butchery.<br> <br>Francesca<br> <br>Tyro! mark the brands of battle<br>On those shoulders dusk and dun,<br>Such as he is are the cattle<br>Skill'd tauridors gladly shun ;<br>Warier than the Andalusian,<br>Swifter far, though not so large,<br>Think'st thou, to his own confusion,<br>He, like him, will blindly charge ?<br>Inch by inch the brute advances,<br>Stealthy yet vindictive glances,<br>Horns as straight as levell'd lances,<br>Crouching withers, stooping haunches ;—<br>Closer yet, until the tightening<br>Strains of rapt excitement height'ning<br>Grows oppressive. Ha ! like lightning<br>On his enemy he launches.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nina<br> <br>O,er the horn'd front drops the streamer,<br>In the nape the sharp steel hisses,<br>Glances, grazes,—Christ ! Redeemer !<br>By a hair the spine he misses.<br> <br>Francesca</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Hark ! that shock like muffled thunder,<br>Booming from the Pyrenees !<br>Both are down—the man is under—<br>Now he struggles to his knees,<br>Now he sinks, his features leaden,<br>Sharpen rigidly and deaden,<br>Sands beneath him soak and redden,<br>Skies above him spin and veer ;<br>Through the doublet, torn and riven,<br>Where the stunted horn was driven,<br>Wells the life-blood—We are even,<br>Daughter of the muleteer !</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Adam+Lindsay+Gordon">Adam Lindsay Gordon</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=339833" data-title="A Legend of Madrid de Adam Lindsay Gordon" data-description="Francesca

Crush'd and throng'd are all the places
In our amphitheatre,
'Midst a sea of swarming faces
I can yet distinguish her ; 
Dost thou triumph, dark-brow'd Nina ?
Is my secret known to thee ?
On the sands of yon arena
I shall yet my vengean..."></div>
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