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.

Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,
Brave steeds and gallant riders found
A common grave;

And there the warrior's hand did gain
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed
The honoured and exalted grade
His worth had gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,

In the stern warfare, which of old

"T was 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,
The proudest knight of chivalry,
Knight of the Sword.

He found his cities and domains
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains
And cruel power;

But, by fierce battle and blockade,
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valour 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 valour 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

66

Since thou hast been, in battle-strife,
So prodigal of health and life,

For earthly fame,

Let virtue nerve thy heart again;

Loud on the last stern battle-plain
They call thy name.

"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
On earth below.

"A life of honour and of worth
Has no eternity on earth,-
"T is but a name;

And yet its glory far exceeds

That base and sensual life, which leads
To want and shame.

"The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high

And proud estate;

The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit
Corrupt with sin,-shall not inherit
A joy so great.

"But the good monk, in cloistered cell, Shall gain it by his book and bell,

And the brave knight, whose arm endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors

His standard rears.