And, did we judge of time aright, Let no one fondly dream again, Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free Thither all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal; side by side I will not here invoke the throng Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, To One alone my thoughts arise, Who shared on earth our common lot, This world is but the rugged road So let us choose that narrow way, Which leads no traveller's foot astray Our cradle is the starting-place, When, in the mansions of the blest, 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, Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears, Behold of what delusive worth Amid a world of treachery! Time steals them from us, chances Even in the most exalted state, Tell me, the charms that lovers seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, The cunning skill, the curious arts, parts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, How soon depart ! Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, Even could the hand of avarice save Let none on such poor hopes rely; Earthly desires and sensual lust But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour To deck the sensual slave of sin, Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, And he who next the sceptre swayed, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, But O how false and full of guile She, that had been his friend before, The countless gifts, the stately walls, Plate with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! His brother, too, whose factious zeal What a gay, brilliant court had he, But he was mortal; and the breath, Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride, The countless treasures of his care, What were they all but grief and shame, His other brothers, proud and high, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, What, but a transient gleam of light, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou con cealed In the dark grave! Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death, thy stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, O World! so few the years we live, Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our days are covered o'er with grief, Left desolate of real good, Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, Midway so many toils appear, Thy goods are bought with many a groan, By the hot sweat of toil alone, Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, Roderic Manrique, he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high Why should their praise in verse be sung? The name, that dwells on every tongue, To friends a friend; how kind to all And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! What prudence with the old and wise: He showed the base and falsely brave His was Octavian's prosperous star, His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill His was a Trajan's goodness, his The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, In tented field and bloody fray, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, He left no well-filled treasury, He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, City and tower and castled wall Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, Such noble leagues he made, that more These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew By his unrivalled skill, by great 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, By the tried valor of his hand, Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory And when so oft, for weal or woe, Had been cast down; When he had served, with patriot zeal, And done such deeds of valor strong, Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day "Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; "Think not the struggle that draws The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit "But the good monk, in cloistered cell, And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, "Cheered onward by this promise sure Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, "O Death, no more, no more delay; 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, 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. "O thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity "And in that form didst suffer here By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, |