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 Ocaña'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 Let thy strong heart of steel this day 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; H 49 "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 "A life of honor and of worth Has no eternity on earth, "Tis but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads To want and shame. "The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high The soul in dalliance laid,-the spirit "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 endures Fierce battle, and against the Moors His standard rears. "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has poured The life-blood of the Pagan horde O'er all the land, In heaven shalt thou receive, at length, The guerdon of thine earthly strength "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third-the better life on high Shalt thou possess." 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 heart The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will 51 NOTE. DON JORGE MANRIQUE, the author of the preceding poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms; and Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; he speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young-having been mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cunavette, in the year 1479-and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already know to fame." 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 Uclès; but according to the poem of his son, in the town of 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. It is a great favourite in Spain; and no less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries, upon it have been published. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket, after his death on the field of battle: "O world! so few the years we live, Would that the life that 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." |