« 上一页继续 »
No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
| 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,
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,
And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Who is the champion? who the strong?
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
The soul is freed.
Our days are covered o'er with grief, His hamlets green and cities fair,
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 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.
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.
'Twas his to share,
His guerdon were.
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.
By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
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 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.
By the tried valour of his hand,
His monarch and his native land
Let Portugal repeat the story,
And proud Castile, who shared the
glory He left no well-filled treasury,
His arms deserved.
And when so oft, for weal or woe,
Had been cast down;
When he had served with patriot zeal Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,
Beneath the banner of Castile,
His sovereign's crown ;
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,
Saying, “Good Cavalier, prepare “ Cheered onward by this promise sure,
Thou doat profess,
The third-the better life on high
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,
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."
THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
FROM LOPE DE VEGA.
SHEPHERD! who with thine amorous, sylvan song
FROM LOPEZ MALDONADO.
Woe is me!
They are cheats,-