The tore, rent, is sent churling, by a forked instrument, till it strikes the gate’s curling in astonishment.
Fair spectators clasp flowers, cast in lots on the clods; the collection of hours spent in fields at lauds.
Within choruses chanting, through this vast hippodrome, lifts, the Spirit of hunting; sits, Diana, enthroned.
Till, at last! The gilt magnate of the crowd’s bent esteem (in the gleam of the agate, of the agate’s grit-gleam),
whirls a rouge for the pedant at its caperous charge; the illusion-divergent for the tore-beast, at large.
The wide smile of a victor bears the toreador, to the thundering spector: the arena-toror.