These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; Her swift revolving wheel turns round, And they are gone! No rest the inconstant goddess knows, Even could the hand of avarice save Let none on such poor hopes rely; Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust, - But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, The human face, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour To deck the sensual slave of sin, Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Of olden time, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Who is the champion? who the strong? As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath I speak not of the Trojan name, 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 know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like days of old. Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, What were they but a pageant scene? That deck the tomb? green, Where are the high-born dames, and where And odors sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, 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 Her charms away. The countless gifts, the stately walls, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Longfellow. 1. 3 The noble steeds, and harness bright, 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, Blasted his years; Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Most loved of all, Breathe not a whisper of his pride, - The countless treasures of his care, What were they all but grief and shame, The parting hour? His other brothers, proud and high, Masters, who, in prosperity, Might rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, When high exalted and elate 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, 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 O World! so few the years we live, Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast, Our happiest hour is when at last |