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TRANSLATIONS.

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 great

And gallant Master,—cruel fate

Stripped him of all.

Breathe not a whisper of his pride.

He on the gloomy scaffold died.

Ignoble fall!

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.

The countless treasures of his care.
Hamlets and villas green and 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?

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86

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TRANSLATIONS.

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,

ง

COPLAS DE MANRIQUE.

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.

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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 groan,

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;