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 villages and villas 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.
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 gayeties;
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 Caesar'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 honored 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 valor 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 valor strong, That neither history nor song Can count them all;Then, on Ocana'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 armor for the fray, The closing scene.
"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 honor 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.
