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.

I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame
Has met our eyes;

Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead,
Though we have heard so oft, and read,
Their histories.

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 odours 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?

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;

Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside!

But oh! 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 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 dewdrops 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!

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.

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.