|
| OH let the soul her slumbers break, | |
| Let thought be quickened, and awake; | |
| Awake to see | |
| How soon this life is past and gone, | |
| And death comes softly stealing on, | 5 |
| How silently! | |
|
| Swiftly our pleasures glide away, | |
| Our hearts recall the distant day | |
| With many sighs; | |
| The moments that are speeding fast | 10 |
| We heed not, but the past,—the past, | |
| More highly prize. | |
|
| Onward its course the present keeps, | |
| Onward the constant current sweeps, | |
| Till life is done; | 15 |
| And, did we judge of time aright, | |
| The past and future in their flight | |
| Would be as one. | |
|
| Let no one fondly dream again, | |
| That Hope and all her shadowy train | 20 |
| Will not decay; | |
| Fleeting as were the dreams of old, | |
| Remembered like a tale that ’s told, | |
| They pass away. | |
|
| Our lives are rivers, gliding free | 25 |
| To that unfathomed, boundless sea, | |
| The silent grave! | |
| Thither all earthly pomp and boast | |
| Roll, to be swallowed up and lost | |
| In one dark wave. | 30 |
|
| Thither the mighty torrents stray, | |
| Thither the brook pursues its way, | |
| And tinkling rill. | |
| There all are equal; side by side | |
| The poor man and the son of pride | 35 |
| Lie calm and still. | |
|
| I will not here invoke the throng | |
| Of orators and sons of song, | |
| The deathless few; | |
| Fiction entices and deceives, | 40 |
| And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves, | |
| Lies poisonous dew. | |
|
| To One alone my thoughts arise, | |
| The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise, | |
| To Him I cry, | 45 |
| Who shared on earth our common lot, | |
| But the world comprehended not | |
| His deity. | |
|
| This world is but the rugged road | |
| Which leads us to the bright abode | 50 |
| Of peace above; | |
| So let us choose that narrow way, | |
| Which leads no traveller’s foot astray | |
| From realms of love. | |
|
| Our cradle is the starting-place, | 55 |
| Life is the running of the race, | |
| We reach the goal | |
| When, in the mansions of the blest, | |
| Death leaves to its eternal rest | |
| The weary soul. | 60 |
|
| Did we but use it as we ought, | |
| This world would school each wandering thought | |
| To its high state. | |
| Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, | |
| Up to that better world on high, | 65 |
| For which we wait. | |
|
| Yes, the glad messenger of love, | |
| To guide us to our home above, | |
| The Saviour came; | |
| Born amid mortal cares and fears, | 70 |
| He suffered in this vale of tears | |
| A death of shame. | |
|
| Behold of what delusive worth | |
| The bubbles we pursue on earth, | |
| The shapes we chase | 75 |
| Amid a world of treachery! | |
| They vanish ere death shuts the eye, | |
| And leave no trace. | |
|
| Time steals them from us, chances strange, | |
| Disastrous accident, and change, | 80 |
| That come to all; | |
| Even in the most exalted state, | |
| Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; | |
| The strongest fall. | |
|
| Tell me, the charms that lovers seek | 85 |
| In the clear eye and blushing cheek, | |
| The hues that play | |
| O’er rosy lip and brow of snow, | |
| When hoary age approaches slow, | |
| Ah, where are they? | 90 |
|
| The cunning skill, the curious arts, | |
| The glorious strength that youth imparts | |
| In life’s first stage; | |
| These shall become a heavy weight, | |
| When Time swings wide his outward gate | 95 |
| To weary age. | |
|
| The noble blood of Gothic name, | |
| Heroes emblazoned high to fame, | |
| In long array; | |
| How, in the onward course of time, | 100 |
| 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; | 105 |
| 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, | 110 |
| 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; | 115 |
| Her swift revolving wheel turns round, | |
| And they are gone! | |
| No rest the inconstant goddess knows, | |
| But changing, and without repose, | |
| Still hurries on. | 120 |
|
| 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, | 125 |
| 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, | 130 |
| 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 | 135 |
| 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 | 140 |
| 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, | 145 |
| 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, | 150 |
|
| How busily each passing hour | |
| Should we exert that magic power! | |
| What ardor show, | |
| To deck the sensual slave of sin, | |
| Yet leave the freeborn soul within, | 155 |
| 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, | 160 |
| 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 | 165 |
| 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 | 170 |
| 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 | 175 |
| 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. | 180 |
|
| 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, | 185 |
| In battle done? | |
|
| Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, | |
| And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, | |
| And nodding plume, | |
| What were they but a pageant scene? | 190 |
| What but the garlands, gay and green, | |
| That deck the tomb? | |
|
| Where are the high-born dames, and where | |
| Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, | |
| And odors sweet? | 195 |
| Where are the gentle knights, that came | |
| To kneel, and breathe love’s ardent flame, | |
| Low at their feet? | |
|
| Where is the song of Troubadour? | |
| Where are the lute and gay tambour | 200 |
| 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, | 205 |
| Henry, whose royal court displayed | |
| Such power and pride; | |
| Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed, | |
| The world its various pleasures laid | |
| His throne beside! | 210 |
|
| But oh, 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 | 215 |
| Her charms away. | |
|
| The countless gifts, the stately walls, | |
| The royal palaces, and halls, | |
| All filled with gold; | |
| Plate with armorial bearings wrought, | 220 |
| Chambers with ample treasures fraught | |
| Of wealth untold; | |
|
| The noble steeds, and harness bright, | |
| And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, | |
| In rich array, | 225 |
| 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, | 230 |
| 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 | 235 |
| 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! | 240 |
|
| 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, | 245 |
| Ignoble fall! | |
|
| The countless treasures of his care, | |
| His villages and villas fair, | |
| His mighty power, | |
| What were they all but grief and shame, | 250 |
| Tears and a broken heart, when came | |
| The parting hour? | |
|
| His other brothers, proud and high, | |
| Masters, who, in prosperity, | |
| Might rival kings; | 255 |
| 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 | 260 |
| 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, | 265 |
| 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! | 270 |
|
| 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 | 275 |
| Can overthrow. | |
|
| Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, | |
| Pennon and standard flaunting high, | |
| And flag displayed; | |
| High battlements intrenched around, | 280 |
| Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, | |
| And palisade, | |
|
| And covered trench, secure and deep, | |
| All these cannot one victim keep, | |
| O Death, from thee, | 285 |
| 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 | 290 |
| 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, | 295 |
| And sorrows neither few nor brief | |
| Veil all in gloom; | |
| Left desolate of real good, | |
| Within this cheerless solitude | |
| No pleasures bloom. | 300 |
|
| 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 | 305 |
| Knows most of care. | |
|
| Thy goods are bought with many a groan, | |
| By the hot sweat of toil alone, | |
| And weary hearts; | |
| Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, | 310 |
| 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, | 315 |
| 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, | 320 |
| 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 | 325 |
| 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! | 330 |
|
| What prudence with the old and wise: | |
| What grace in youthful gayeties; | |
| In all how sage! | |
| Benignant to the serf and slave, | |
| He showed the base and falsely brave | 335 |
| A lion’s rage. | |
|
| His was Octavian’s prosperous star, | |
| The rush of Cæsar’s conquering car | |
| At battle’s call; | |
| His, Scipio’s virtue; his, the skill | 340 |
| And the indomitable will | |
| Of Hannibal. | |
|
| His was a Trajan’s goodness, his | |
| A Titus’ noble charities | |
| And righteous laws; | 345 |
| The arm of Hector, and the might | |
| Of Tully, to maintain the right | |
| In truth’s just cause; | |
|
| The clemency of Antonine, | |
| Aurelius’ countenance divine, | 350 |
| Firm, gentle, still; | |
| The eloquence of Adrian, | |
| And Theodosius’ love to man, | |
| And generous will; | |
|
| In tented field and bloody fray, | 355 |
| An Alexander’s vigorous sway | |
| And stern command; | |
| The faith of Constantine; ay, more, | |
| The fervent love Camillus bore | |
| His native land. | 360 |
|
| 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 | 365 |
| 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 | 370 |
| The rents, and the long vassal train, | |
| That conquest gave. | |
|
| And if of old his halls displayed | |
| The honored and exalted grade | |
| His worth had gained, | 375 |
| 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 | 380 |
| ’T was his to share, | |
| Such noble leagues he made that more | |
| And fairer regions than before | |
| His guerdon were. | |
|
| These are the records, half effaced, | 385 |
| 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. | 390 |
|
| 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, | 395 |
| 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, | 400 |
| Soon his own banner was displayed | |
| From every tower. | |
|
| By the tried valor of his hand, | |
| His monarch and his native land | |
| Were nobly served; | 405 |
| 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 | 410 |
| 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 valor strong, | 415 |
| 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, | 420 |
|
| 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 armor for the fray, | 425 |
| 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; | 430 |
| 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; | 435 |
| Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, | |
| Its life of glorious fame to leave | |
| On earth below. | |
|
| “A life of honor and of worth | |
| Has no eternity on earth, | 440 |
| ’T is 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, | 445 |
| Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high | |
| And proud estate; | |
| The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit | |
| Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit | |
| A joy so great. | 450 |
|
| “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 | 455 |
| 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, | 460 |
| 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, | 465 |
| Depart, thy hope is certainty, | |
| The third, the better life on high | |
| Shalt thou possess.” | |
|
| “O Death, no more, no more delay; | |
| My spirit longs to flee away, | 470 |
| And be at rest; | |
| The will of Heaven my will shall be, | |
| I bow to the divine decree, | |
| To God’s behest. | |
|
| “My soul is ready to depart, | 475 |
| No thought rebels, the obedient heart | |
| Breathes forth no sigh; | |
| The wish on earth to linger still | |
| Were vain, when ’t is God’s sovereign will | |
| That we shall die. | 480 |
|
| “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 | 485 |
| By mortal birth, | |
|
| “And in that form didst suffer here | |
| Torment, and agony, and fear, | |
| So patiently; | |
| By thy redeeming grace alone, | 490 |
| And not for merits of my own, | |
| Oh, pardon me!” | |
|
| As thus the dying warrior prayed, | |
| Without one gathering mist or shade | |
| Upon his mind; | 495 |
| 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, | 500 |
| Its glorious rest! | |
| And, though the warrior’s sun has set, | |
| Its light shall linger round us yet, | |
| Bright, radiant, blest. |
