COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain. Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, 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 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 The pleasures and delights, which mask In treacherous smiles life's serious task, What are they, all, 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 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, 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. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. I speak not of the Trojan name, Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, 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 eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? 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? 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 Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore ? And he who next the sceptre swayed, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, 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, 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 dew-drops 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, Was in his train! COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 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 Breathe not a whisper of his pride,— 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, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, 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, |