Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore? And he who next the sceptre swayed, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid But O! 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 ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold; The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dew-drops on the grass, They passed away. His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, What a gay, brilliant court had he, Was in his train! COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 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, Was quenched in tears! Spain's haughty Constable,-the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride,- The countless treasures of his care, His hamlets green, and cities fair, 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, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best The bondsmen of their high behest, What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate With power and pride? What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, Grew dim and died? So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, All these, O Death, hast thou concealed 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 The soul is freed. 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 COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. 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 Knows most of care. 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, But with a lingering step and slow Its form departs. And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, As Virtue's son,— Roderic Manrique,-he whose name Is written on the scroll of Fame, Spain's champion; His signal deeds and prowess high Ye saw his deeds! Why should their praise in verse be sung? The name, that dwells on every tongue, No minstrel needs. 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! And to the valiant and the free How brave a chief! What prudence with the old and wise: What grace in youthful gaieties; In all how sage! Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave His was Octavian's prosperous star, The rush of Cæsar's conquering car At battle's call; 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 In truth's just cause; The clemency of Antonine, Aurelius' countenance divine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, And Theodosius' love to man, And generous will; In tented field and bloody fray, An Alexander's vigorous sway And stern command; 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; He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, City and tower and castled wall Were his estate. |