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, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep,- 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, 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 E But ah! 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 bright, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! His brother, too, whose factious zeal What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry 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, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride,— Ignoble fall! The countless treasures of his care, 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 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, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep,- 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, 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 E 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, 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 And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief! What prudence with the old and wise; In all how sage! 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 And the indomitable will Of Hannibal. His was a Trajan's goodness,-his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might Of Tully, to maintain the right The clemency of Antonine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will; In tented field and bloody fray, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, His native land. He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, Nor massive plate; He fought the Moors,-and, in their fall, Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed The honoured and exalted grade His worth had gained, So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, In the stern warfare, which of old 'Twas his to share, Such noble leagues he made, that more And fairer regions, than before, His guerdon were. These are the records, half effaced, Which, with the hand of youth, he traced On history's page; But with fresh victories he drew Each fading character anew In his old age. By his unrivalled skill, by great By worth adored, He stood in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains Beneath a tyrant's galling chains But, by fierce battle and blockade, |