O let the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened, and awake;
Awake to
How soon this life is past and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding
We heed not, but the past,—the past,
More highly prize.
Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps,
Till life is done;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their
Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that's told,
They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and
Roll, to be swallowed up and
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill,
There all are equal; side by
The poor man and the son of
Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,
And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise,
To Him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended
His deity.
This world is but the rugged
Which leads us to the bright
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot
From realms of love,
Our cradle is the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal
The weary soul.
Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each wandering
To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears.
He suffered in this vale of tearsA death of shame.
Behold of what delusive
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase,
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.
Time steals them from us, chances strange,
Disastrous accident, and change,
That come to all;
Even in the most exalted state,
Relentless sweeps the stroke of fate;
The strongest fall.
Tell me, the charms that lovers
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that playO'er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah; where are they?
The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth
In life's first stage;
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward
To weary age.
The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;
How, in the onward course of time,
The landmarks of that race
Were swept away!
Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime,
The scutcheon, that without a stain,
Their fathers bore.
Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
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,
Still hurries on.
Even could the hand of avarice
Its gilded baubles till the
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,
And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual
Are passions springing from the dust,
They fade and die;
But in the life beyond the tomb,
They seal the immortal spirits
Eternally!
The pleasures and delights, which
In treacherous smiles life's serious task,
What are they, all,
But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?
No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay, but onward
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.
Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning
The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit
With heavenly grace,
How busily each passing
Should we exert that magic power,
What ardor show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the freeborn soul within,
In weeds of woe!
Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,
Famous in history and in
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and
Their race sublime.
Who is the champion? who the strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?
On these shall
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd's
Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its
Has met our eyes;
Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead,
Though we have heard so oft, and read,
Their histories.
Little avails it now to
Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like day's of old.
Where is the King,
Don Juan?
Each royal prince and noble
Of Aragon ?
Where are the courtly gallantries?
The deeds of love and high emprise,
In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume,
What were they but a pageant scene?
What but the garlands, gay and green,
That deck the tomb?
Where are the high-born dames, and
Their gay attire, and jewelled hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights, that
To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame,
Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour?
Where are the lute and gay
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre swayed,
Henry, whose royal court
Such power and pride;
O, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures
His throne beside!
But O how false and full of
That world, which wore so soft a
But to betray!
She, that had been his friend before,
Now from the fated monarch
Her charms away.
The countless gifts, the stately walls,
The loyal palaces, and
All filled with gold;
Plate with armorial bearings wrought,
Chambers with ample treasures
Of wealth untold;
The noble steeds, and harness bright,
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,
In rich array,
Where shall we seek them now? Alas!
Like the bright dewdrops on the grass,
They passed away.
His brother, too, whose factious
Usurped the sceptre of Castile,
Unskilled to reign;
What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of
Was in his train!
But he was mortal; and the breath,
That flamed from the hot forge of Death,
Blasted his years;
Judgment of God! that flame by thee,
When raging fierce and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears!
Spain's haughty Constable, the
And gallant Master, whom we
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
The parting hour?
His other brothers, proud and high,
Masters, who, in prosperity,
Might rival kings;
Who made the bravest and the
The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings;
What was their prosperous estate,
When high exalted and
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
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
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
Unerringly.
O World! so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost
Were life indeed!
Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,
Our happiest hour is when at
The soul is freed.
Our days are covered o'er with grief,
And sorrows neither few nor
Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good,
Within this cheerless
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
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
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
Is written on the scroll of Fame,
Spain's champion;
His signal deeds and prowess
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
The vassals of this ancient
And feudal fief!
To foes how stern a foe was he!
And to the valiant and the
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 braveA lion's rage.
His was Octavian's prosperous star,
The rush of Caesar's conquering
At battle's call;
His,
Scipio's virtue; his, the
And the indomitable
Of Hannibal.
His was a Trajan's goodness, hisA Titus' noble
And righteous laws;
The arm of Hector, and the
Of Tully, to maintain the
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
And stern command;
The faith of Constantine; ay, more,
The fervent love Camillus
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
Were his estate.
Upon the hard-fought battle-ground,
Brave steeds and gallant riders foundA common grave;
And there the warrior's hand did
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.
And if, of old, his halls
The honored and exalted
His worth had gained,
So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
Brothers and bondsmen of his
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
And fairer regions, than before,
His guerdon were.
These are the records, half effaced,
Which, with the hand of youth, he
On history's page;
But with fresh victories he
Each fading character
In his old age.
By his unrivalled skill, by
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
Beneath a tyrant's galling
And cruel power;
But by fierce battle and blockade,
Soon his own banner was
From every tower.
By the tried valor of his hand,
His monarch and his native
Were nobly served;
Let Portugal repeat the story,
And proud Castile, who shared the
His arms deserved.
And when so oft, for weal or woe,
His life upon the fatal
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
Can count them all;
Then, on Ocana's castled rock,
Death at his portal came to knock,
With sudden call,
Saying, "Good Cavalier,
To leave this world of toil and
With joyful mien;
Let thy strong heart of steel this
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
They call thy name. "Think not the struggle that draws
Too terrible for man, nor
To meet the foe;
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,
Its life of glorious fame to
On earth below. "A life of honor and of
Has no eternity on earth,'T is but a name;
And yet its glory far
That base and sensual life, which
To want and shame. "The eternal life, beyond the sky,
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the
And proud estate;
The soul in dalliance laid, the
Corrupt with sin, shall not inheritA joy so great. "But the good monk, in cloistered cell,
Shall gain it by his book and bell,
His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm
Fierce battle, and against the
His standard rears. "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has
The life-blood of the Pagan hordeO'er all the land,
In heaven shalt thou receive, at length,
The guerdon of thine earthly
And dauntless hand. "Cheered onward by this promise sure,
Strong in the faith entire and
Thou dost profess,
Depart, thy hope is certainty,
The third, the better life on
Shalt thou possess." "O Death, no more, no more delay;
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest;
The will of Heaven my will shall be,
I bow to the divine decree,
To God's behest. "My soul is ready to depart,
No thought rebels, the obedient
Breathes forth no sigh;
The wish on earth to linger
Were vain, when 't is God's sovereign
That we shall die. "O thou, that for our sins didst takeA human form, and humbly
Thy home on earth;
Thou, that to thy divinityA human nature didst
By mortal birth, "And in that form didst suffer
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently;
By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
O, pardon me!" As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or
Upon his mind;
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection's gentle
So soft and kind;
His soul to Him, who gave it, rose;
God lead it to its long repose,
Its glorious rest!
And, though the warrior's sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.'Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century.
He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle.
Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Ucles; and speaks of him as 'a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour.
He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame.' He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the year 1479.
The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet,
Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song.
He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Ucles; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana.
It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique.
In the language of his historian, 'Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn.' This praise is not exaggerated.
The poem is a model in its kind.
Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on -- calm, dignified, and majestic.' ~ Longfellow's Poetical Works, prnt. by Routledge, 1883.
