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 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, 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. I speak not of the Trojan name, Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Little avails it now to know Of ages past so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Where are the courtly gallantries? But O, how false and full of guile She, that had been his friend before, The countless gifts,-the stately walls, Plate with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds and harness brignu, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! His brother, too, whose factious zeal 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, And flag displayed; High battlements intrenched around, That flamed from the hot forge of All these cannot one victim keep, And covered trench, secure and deep, Death, Blasted his years; Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, -the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride,- The countless treasures of his care, What were they all but grief and shame, His other brothers, proud and high, Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, What, but a transient gleam of light, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death, thy stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, 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 Our days are covered o'er with grief, Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, Midway so many toils appear, Thy goods are bought with many a groan, Fleet-footed is the approach of woe, And he, the good man's shield and shade, Roderic Manrique,—he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high Why should their praise in verse be sung! To friends a friend;-how kind to all The vassals of this ancient hall And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! What prudence with the old and wise! Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave His was Octavian's prosperous star, His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill His was a Trajan's goodness,-his The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, In tented field and bloody fray, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore His native land. He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate; 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 valour of his hand, Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. 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 Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if of old his halls displayed Had been cast down; When he had served with patriot zeal And done such deeds of valour strong Can count them all; Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day "Since thou hast been in battle-strife, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; “Think not the struggle that draws near To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, "A life of honour and of worth And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame. "The eternal life, beyond the sky, The soul in dalliance laid, -the spirit "But the good monk, in cloistered cell, And the brave knight, whose arm endures "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life blood of the Pagan horde In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty,The third-the better life on high Shalt thou possess." "O Death, no more, no more delay; The will of Heaven my will shall be,- "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 'tis God's sovereign will That we shall die. "O Thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thy home on earth; Thou, that to thy divinity "And in that form didst suffer here By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, Encircled by his family, His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; And though the warrior's sun has set, 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 For thou my shepherd, guard, and guide shalt be; Thy feet all beautiful upon the mountains. Hear, Shepherd!-Thou who for thy flock art dying, 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! |