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Where is the mazy dance of old,

The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?

And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;

O, in what winning smiles arrayed,

The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside!

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,
Unskilled to reign;

What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of chivalry

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,
When raging fierce and fearfully,

Was quenched in tears!

Spain's haughty Constable,-the true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all.

Breathe not a whisper of his pride,-
He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Ignoble fall!

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,
Masters, who, in prosperity,

Might rival kings;

Who made the bravest and the best

The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings;

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,
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,

That might the sword of empire wield,

All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave!

Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war's alarms,
When thou dost show,

O Death, thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace
Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed;

High battlements intrenched around,
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And palisade,

And covered trench, secure and deep,-
All these cannot one victim keep,

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
No pleasures bloom.

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
Demand no pompous eulogy,-

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
A lion's rage.

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.

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