COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed 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, And veteran service to the state, 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, By the tried valor of his hand, His monarch and his native land Were nobly served; Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. And when so oft, for weal or woe, His life upon the fatal throw Had been cast down; When he had served with patriot zeal, Beneath the banner of Castile, His sovereign's crown; And done such deeds of valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all; Then, on Ocaña's castled rock, Death at his portal came to knock, With sudden call, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare To leave this world of toil and care With joyful mien; Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armour for the fray, The closing scene. "Since thou hast been in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; They call thy name. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. "Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man,-nor fear To meet the foe; Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave "A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth, 'Tis but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads "The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high The soul in dalliance laid, -the spirit "But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell, His prayers and tears; And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears. "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength And dauntless hand. "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Depart, thy hope is certainty,- "O Death, no more, no more delay; My spirit longs to flee away, And be at rest; The will of Heaven my will shall be, I bow to the divine decree, To God's behest. "My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart 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 A human nature didst ally By mortal birth, "And in that form didst suffer here Torment, and agony, and fear, So patiently; By thy redeeming grace alone, And not for merits of my own, O, pardon me!" As thus the dying warrior prayed, Without one gathering mist or shade Upon his mind; Encircled by his family, Watched by affection's gentle eye So soft and kind; COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; Its glorious rest! And though the warrior's sun has set, * This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published, no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdipeñas, is the best. It is known as the Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle. "O world! so few the years we live, Would that the life that 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. "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 |