The noble blood of Gothic name, Heroes emblazoned high to fame, In long array;
How, in the onward course of time, The landmarks of that race sublime Were swept away!
Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Prostrate and trampled in the dust, Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain The scutcheon, that, without a stain, Their fathers bore.
Wealth and the high estate of pride, With what untimely speed they glide, How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, The vassals of a mistress they, Of fickle heart.
These gifts in Fortune's hands are found;
Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on.
Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust,- They fade and die;
But, in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom Eternally!
The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all,
But the fleet coursers of the chase, And death an ambush in the race, Wherein we fall?
No foe, no dangerous pass, we, heed, Brook no delay,-but onward speed With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near, We strive to check our mad career, But strive in vain.
Could we new charms to age impart, And fashion with a cunning art The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with light, And make the glorious spirit bright With heavenly grace,—
How busily each passing hour Should we exert that magic power! What ardour show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe!
Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime.
Who is the champion? who the strong? Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng? On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd's breath Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes;
Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.
Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like days of old.
Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon?
Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed the
Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride;
O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside!
But O! how false and full of guile That world, which wore so soft a smile But to betray!
She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away.
The countless gifts,-the stately walls, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold;
Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold;
The noble steeds and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array,-
Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away.
His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, Unskilled to reign;
What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry Was in his train !
But he was mortal; and the breath That flamed from the hot forge of Death, Blasted his years;
Judgment of God! that flame by thee, When raging fierce and fearfully, Was quenched in tears!
Spain's haughty Constable,-the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Most loved of all.
Breathe not a whisper of his pride,- He on the gloomy scaffold died, Ignoble fall!
The countless treasures of his care, His hamlets green, and cities fair, His mighty power,-
What were they all but grief and shame, Tears and a broken heart, when came The parting hour!
His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings;
Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, Their underlings;
What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride?
What but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died?
So many a duke of royal name, Marquis and count of spotless fame, And baron brave,
That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou concealed In the dark grave!
Their deeds of mercy and of arms, In peaceful days, or war's alarms, When thou dost show,
O Death, thy stern and angry face, One stroke of thy all-powerful mace Can overthrow.
Unnumbered hosts that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed;
High battlements intrenched around, Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, And palisade,
And covered trench, secure and deep,- All these cannot one victim keep, O Death, from thee,
When thou dost battle in thy wrath, And thy strong shafts pursue their path Unerringly.
O World! so few the years we live, Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed!
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last The soul is freed.
Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor brief Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom.
Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Or dark despair;
Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here Knows most of care.
Thy goods are bought with many a
By the hot sweat of toil alone, And weary hearts;
Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs.
And he, the good man's shield and shade,
To whom all hearts their homage paid, As Virtue's son,-
Roderic Manrique,-he whose name Is written on the scroll of Fame, Spain's champion;
His signal deeds and prowess high Demand no pompous eulogy,- Ye saw his deeds!
Why should their praise in verse be sung?
The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs.
To friends a friend;-how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall
And feudal fief!
To foes how stern a foe was he!
And to the valiant and the free
How brave a chief!
What prudence with the old and wise: What grace in youthful gaieties; In all how sage! Benignant to the serf and slave,
He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage.
The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will:
In tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command;
The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land.
He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate;
He fought the Moors,-and, in their fall,
City and tower and castled wall Were his estate.
Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave;
And there the warrior's hand did gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave.
And if, of old, his halls displayed The honoured and exalted grade His worth had gained,
So, in the dark, disastrous hour, Brothers and bondsmen of his power His hand sustained.
After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old "Twas his to share,
Such noble leagues he made, that more And fairer regions, than before His guerdon were.
These are the records, half-effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced
On history's page;
But with fresh victories he drew Each fading character anew In his old age.
By his unrivalled skill, by great And veteran service to the state, By worth adored,
He stood, in his high dignity, The proudest knight of chivalry, Knight of the Sword.
He found his cities and domains Beneath a tyrant's galling chains And cruel power;
But by fierce battle and blockade, Soon his own banner was displayed From every tower.
By the tried valour of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served ;-
Let Portugal repeat the story,
And proud Castile, who shared the glory
His arms deserved.
And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw
Had been cast down;
When he had served with patriot zeal Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown;
And done such deeds of valour strong That neither history nor song Can count them all;
Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call,-
Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien;
Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armour for the fray, The closing scene.
"Since thou hast been in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame,
Let virtue nerve thy heart again; Loud on the last stern battle-plain They call thy name.
"Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man,-nor fear To meet the foe;
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On earth below.
"A life of honour and of worth Has no eternity on earth,- 'Tis but a name;
And yet its glory far exceeds
That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame.
"The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase nor the high The proud estate;
The soul in dalliance laid,-the spirit Corrupt with sin,-shall not inherit A joy so great.
"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm endures
Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears.
"And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured
The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land,
In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand.
"Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess,
Depart, thy hope is certainty,- The third-the better life on high Shalt thou possess."
"O Thou, that for our sins didst take
A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth;
Thou, that to thy divinity A human nature didst ally By mortal birth,
"And in that form didst suffer here
Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently;
By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, O pardon me!"
As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind;
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind;
His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; God lead it to its long repose, Its glorious rest!
And though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest.
LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree! Pomp of the meadow! mirror of the morn! The soul of April, unto whom are born The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee! Although where'er thy devious current strays, The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye
Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count! How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current! O sweet simplicity of days gone by!
Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount!
AND now, behold! as at the approach of morning, Through the gross vapours, Mars grows fiery red Down in the west upon the ocean floor,
Appeared to me-may I again behold it!- A light along the sea, so swiftly coming, Its motion by no flight of wing is equalled.
And when therefrom I had withdrawn a little Mine eyes, that I might question my conductor, Again I saw it brighter grown and larger.
Thereafter, on all sides of it, appeared I knew not what of white, and underneath, Little by little, there came forth another. My master yet had uttered not a word, While the first brightness into wings unfolded; But, when he clearly recognised the pilot,
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