Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,

Full in the centre stands the Bull at bay,

Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,[92]

And foes disabled in the brutal fray:

And now the Matadores[93] around him play,

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand:

Once more through all he bursts his thundering way—

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye—'tis past—he sinks upon the sand![dd]