Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, What were they but a pageant scene? Where are the high-born dames, and where 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 The countless gifts,—the stately walls, All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds, and harness bright, In rich array, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! 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, What were they all but grief and shame, 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, 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, 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 Our days are covered o'er with grief, 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. And he, the good man's shield and shade, Roderic Manrique,-he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high Why should their praise in verse be sung? 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 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 And the indomitable will Of Hannibal. His is was a Trajan's goodness,-his A Ti us' noble charities Anu righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might 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, The faith of Constantine; ay, more, He left no well-filled treasury, He heaped no pile of riches high, 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 The honoured and exalted grade His worth had gained, So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, "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, |