COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. I will not here invoke the throng Of orators and sons of song, The deathless few; Fiction entices and deceives, And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, To One alone my thoughts arise, The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wise, To Him I cry, Who shared on earth our common lot, His deity. This world is but the rugged road So let us choose that narrow way, Our cradle is the starting-place, In life we run the onward race, And reach the goal; When, in the mansions of the blest, Death leaves to its eternal rest The weary soul. Did we but use it as we ought, This world would school each wandering thought To its high state. Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, Up to that better world on high, For which we wait. Yes, the glad messenger of love, Born amid mortal cares and fears, He suffered in this vale of tears A death of shame. Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, The shapes we chase, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, And leave no trace. Time steals them from us,-chances strange, Disastrous accidents, and change, That come to all; Even in the most exalted state, Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate; The strongest fall. Tell me, the charms that lovers seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, When hoary age approaches slow, Ah, where are they? The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate To weary age. The noble blood of Gothic name, In long array; How, in the onward course of time, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Still hurries on. Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; Life, like an empty dream, flits by, Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die; But, in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, The human face, 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, Famous in history and in song Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Their kingdoms lost, and desolate Their race sublime. 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. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. I speak not of the Trojan name, Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Little avails it now to know Of ages passed 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? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done? 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? 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? |