No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay,--but onward speed
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.

| 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?

Could we new charms to age impart,
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, -
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!

Where are the high-born dames, and

where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odours 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, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,
Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their raca sublime.

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;
0, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside !

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.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame
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
Of ages past 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?
Their deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?

But 0, 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, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with amply treasures fraught Of wealth untold; The noble steeds and harness brigni, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array,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,

Unskilled to reign;

And flag displayed ; What a gay, brilliant court had he, High battlements intrenched around, When all the flower of chivalry

Bastion, and moated wall, and mound, Was in his train!

And palisade, But he was mortal; and the breath,

| And covered trench, secure and deep, That flamed from the hot forge of | All these cannot one victim keep, Death,

O Death, from thee, Blasted his years;

| When thou dost battle in thy wrath, Judgment of God! that flame by thee,

And thy strong shafts pursue their path When raging fierce and fearfully,

Unerringly. Was quenched in tears !

O World! so few the years we live, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true

Would that the life which thou dost give And gallant Master, whom we knew

Were life indeed! Most loved of all.

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Breathe not a whisper of his pride,

Our happiest hour is when at last
He on the gloomy scaffold died,

The soul is freed.
Ignoble fall !
The countless treasures of his care,

Our days are covered o'er with grief, His hamlets green and cities fair,

And sorrows neither few nor brief

Veil all in gloom ;
His mighty power,
What were they all but grief and shame,

Left desolate of real good,
Tears and a broken heart, when came

Within this cheerless solitude

No pleasures bloom.
The parting hour ?
His other brothers, proud and high,

Thy pilgrimage begins in tears,
Masters, who, in prosperity,

And ends in bitter doubts and fears,

Or dark despair ;
Might rival kings;
Who made the bravest and the best

Midway so many toils appear,
The bondsmen of their high behest,

That he who lingers longest here Their underlings ;

Knows most of care. What was their prosperous estate,

Thy goods are bought with many a groan, When high exalted and elate

By the hot sweat of toil alone,

And weary hearts; With power and pride?

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height,

But with a lingering step and slow

Its form departs.
Grew dim and died ?
So many a duke of royal name,

And he, the good man's shield and shade, Marquis and count of spotless fame,

To whom all hearts their homage paid, And baron brave,

As Virtue's son, That might the sword of empire wield,

Roderic Manrique, -he whose name All these, O Death, hast thou concealed

Is written on the scroll of Fame, In the dark grave!

Spain's champion; Their deeds of mercy and of arms,

His signal deeds and prowess high In peaceful days, or war's alarms,

Demand no pompous eulogy, — When thou dost show,

Ye saw his deeds! O Death, thy stern and angry face,

| Why should their praise in verse be gung! One stroke of thy all-powerful mace

The name, that dwells on every tongue, Can overthrow.

No minstrel needs. Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, To friends a friend;-how kind to all Pennon and standard flaunting high, The vassals of this ancient ball

And fendal fief!

His worth had gained, To foes how stern a foe was he!

So, in the dark, disastrous hour, And to the valiant and the free

Brothers and bondsmen of his power How brave a chief !

His hand sustained.
What prudence with the old and wise! After high deeds, not left untold,
What grace in youthful gaieties ! In the stern warfare, which of old
In all how sage!

'Twas his to share,
Benignant to the serf and slave, Such noble leagues he made, that more
He showed the base and falsely brave And fairer regions, than before,
A lion's rage.

His guerdon were.
His was Octavian's prosperous star, These are the reconds, half effaced,
The rush of Cæsar's conquering car

Which, with the hand of youth, ho At battle's call;

traced His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill On history's page; And the indomitable will

But with fresh victories he drew Of Hannibal.

Each fading character anew

In his old age.
His was a Trajan's goodness, his
A Titus' noble charities

By his unrivalled skill, by great
And righteous laws;

And veteran service to the state,
The arm of Hector, and the might By worth adored,
Of Tully, to maintain the right

He stood in his high dignity,
In truth's just cause :

The proudest knight of chivalry,

Knight of the Sword,
The clemency of Antonine,
Aurelius' countenance divine,

He found his cities and domains
Firm, gentle, still;

Beneath a tyrant's galling chains The eloquence of Adrian,

And cruel power ; And Theodosius' love to man,

But by fierce battle and blockade And generous will :

Soon his own banner was displayed

From every tower.
In tented field and bloody fray,
An Alexander's vigorous sway

By the tried valour of his hand,
And stern command;

His monarch and his native land
The faith of Constantine ; ay, more, Were nobly served ;-
The fervent love Camillus bore

Let Portugal repeat the story,
His native land.

And proud Castile, who shared the

glory He left no well-filled treasury,

His arms deserved.
He heaped po pile of riches high,
Nor massive plate;

And when so oft, for weal or woe,
He fought the Moors,—and, in their fall, His life upon the fatal throw
City and tower and castle wall

Had been cast down;
Were his estate.

When he had served with patriot zeal Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,

Beneath the banner of Castile,
Brave steeds and gallant riders found

His sovereign's crown ;
A common grave;
And there the warrior's hand did gain

And done such deeds of valour strong The rents, and the long vassal train,

That neither history nor song That conquest gave.

Can count them all;

Then, on Ocaña's castled rock,
And if of old his halls displayed Death at his portal came to knock,
The honoured and exalted grade With sudden call,-

Saying, “Good Cavalier, prepare “ Cheered onward by this promise sure,
To leave this world of toil and care Strong in the faith entire and pure
With joyful mien;

Thou doat profess,
Let thy strong heart of steel this day Depart,—thy hope is certainty,-
Put on its armour for the fray,–

The third-the better life on high
The closing scene.

Shalt thou possess.' “Since thou hast been in battle-strife, “O Death, no more, no more delay; So prodigal of health and life,

My spirit longs to flee away, For earthly fame,

And be at rest; Let virtue nerve thy heart again ; The will of Heaven my will shall be, Loud on the last stern battle-plain I bow to the divine decre e They call thy name. ,

To God's behest. “Think not the struggle that draws near “My soul is ready to depart, Too terrible for man,--nor fear

No thought rebels, the obedient heart To meet the foe ;

Breathes forth no sigh; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,

The wish on earth to linger still Its life of glorious fame to leave Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign On earth below.


That we shall die. “A life of honour and of worth Has no eternity on earth,

“0 Thou, that for our sins didst take 'Tis but a name;

A human form, and humbly make And yet its glory far exceeds

Thy home on earth; . That base and sensual life, which leads Thou, that to thy divinity To want and shame.

A human nature didst ally “ The eternal life, beyond the sky,

By mortal birth, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high

“ And in that form didst suffer here And proud estate ;

Torment, and agony, and fear,
The soul in dalliance laid, -the spirit So patiently;
Corrupt with sin,-shall not inherit By thy redeeming grace alone,
A joy so great.

And not for merits of my own, “But the good monk, in cloistered cell,

| 0, pardon me!” Shall gain it by his book and bell, As thus the dying warrior prayed, His prayers and tears;

Without one gathering mist or shade And the brave knight, whose arm endures Upon his mind; Fierce battle, and against the Moors Encircled by his family, His standard rears.

Watched by affection's gentle eye,

So soft and kind; “And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured

His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; The life blood of the Pagan horde God lead it to its long repose, O'er all the land,

Its glorious rest! In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, and though the warrior's sun has set, The guerdon of thine earthly strength Its light shall linger round us yet, And dauntless hand.

| Bright, radiant, blest.

NOTE. DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the preceding poem, flourished in the las half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms; and Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as “a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavette, in the year 1479—and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame."



SHEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
Hast broken the slumber that encompassed me,
That mad'st thy crook from the accursèd tree,
On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long !
Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains ;
For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be;
I will obey thy voice, and wait to see
Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains.
Hear, Shepherd !—Thou who for thy flock art dying,
0, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou
Rejoicest at the contrite sinner's vow.
O, wait !-to thee my weary soul is crying,
Wait for me!-Yet why ask it when I see,
With feet nailed to the cross, thou’rt waiting still for me!



AH, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Of all that mankind may not rue!

Most untrue
To him who keeps most faith with thee !

Woe is me!
The falcon has the eyes of the dove !

Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!

Thy deceits
Give us clearly to comprehend

Whither tend
All thy pleasures, all thy sweets!

They are cheats,-
Thorns below, and flowers above!

Ah, Love!
Perjured, false, treacherous Love!
This song is inserted in "The Spanish Student.”

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