The cunning skill, the curious arts, These shall become a heavy weight, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, But changing, and without repose, Even could the hand of avarice save Reclaimed its prey, Let none on such poor hopes rely; COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. Life, like an empty dream, flits by, Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust,--- But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour What ardor show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, 39 Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, 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 I speak not of the Trojan name, Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Little avails it now to know 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 Where are the courtly gallantries? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came Where is the song of Troubadour ? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, And he who next the sceptre swayed, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, But O! how false and full of guile She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away. The countless gifts,-the stately walls, All filled with gold; I'late with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds, and harness bright, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! 41 ! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, His brother, too, whose factious zeal What a gay, brilliant court had he, But he was mortal; and the breath, Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride,— The countless treasures of his care, 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 |