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, 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, Famous in history and in song Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 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? Each royal prince and noble heir Where are the courtly gallantries? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, 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 They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, And he who next the sceptre swayed, 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 | Might rival kings; walls, The royal palaces, and halls Plate with armorial wrought, bearings Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold; Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, What, but a transient gleam of light, The noble steeds, and harness bright, Grew dim and died? knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire All these, O Death, hast thou concealed In the dark grave! Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death, thy stern and angry face, 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, His other brothers, proud and high,| Our happiest hour is when at last Masters, who, in prosperity, The soul is freed. Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave; To friends a friend ;-how kind to all And there the warrior's hand did The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! What prudence with the old and gain The rents, and the long vassal train, That conquest gave. And if, of old, his halls displayed So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old "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, With joyful mien; Let thy strong heart of steel this day 'Since thou hast been, in battle- Which, with the hand of youth, he So prodigal of health and life, traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew By his unrivalled skill, by great He stood, in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains But, by fierce battle and blockade, By the tried valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Let Portugal repeat the story, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; "Think not the struggle that draws near And proud estate; The soul in dalliance laid, --the spirit And proud Castile, who shared the Corrupt with siu,-shall not inlierit glory His arms deserved. A joy so great. My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest; The will of Heaven my will shall SHEPHERD! that with thine amor 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 ous, sylvan song Hast broken the slumber which encompassed me, That mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! 1 This poem of Manrique is a great favorite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, It Rodrigo de Valddepeñas, is the best. is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There "O thou, that for our sins didst is also a prose Commentary by Luis de That we shall die. take A human form, and humbly make And in that form didst suffer Torment, and agony, and fear, By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, Upon his mind; Watched by affection's gentle eye, His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; Aranda. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle: |