COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. With power and pride? What, but a transient gleam of light, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death, thy stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, High battlements intrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep,- O Death, from thee, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, O World! so few the years we live, Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, -43 Our days are covered o'er with grief, Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here 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, And he, the good man's shield and shade, As Virtue's son,— Roderic Manrique,-he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high 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 And feudal fief! To foes how stern a foe was he! COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. And to the valiant and the free What prudence with the old and wise; Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave His was Octavian's prosperous star, His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill Of Hannibal. His was a Trajan's goodness, — his And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, Firm, gentle, still; The eloquence of Adrian, In tented field and bloody fray, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, The fervent love Camillus bore He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, 45 Nor massive plate; He fought the Moors,—and, in their fall, Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, '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 By worth adored, He stood, in his high dignity, COPLAS DE MANRIQUE. He found his cities and domains But, hy fierce battle and blockade, By the tried valor of his hand, Were nobly served;— Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory 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, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; 47 |