Our days are covered o'er with grief, Left desolate of real good, Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, 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 And he, the good man's shield and shade, To whom all hearts their homage paid, 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 What prudence with the old and wise: Benignant to the serf and slave, He showed the base and falsely brave A lion's rage. His was Octavian's prosperous star, His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill His was a Trajan's goodness, - his And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, The eloquence of Adrian, In tented field and bloody fray, 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, And there the warrior's hand did gain And if, of old, his halls displayed So, in the dark, disastrous hour, After high deeds, not left untold, Such noble leagues he made, that more 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 By worth adored, He stood, in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains But, by fierce battle and blockade, 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, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day Put on its armour 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, To meet the foe; nor fear Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, "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 "The eternal life, beyond the sky, Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high The soul in dalliance laid, - the spirit Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit A 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 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, "Cheered onward by this promise sure, Depart, thy hope is certainty, The third the better life on high "O Death, no more, no more delay; And be at rest; The will of Heaven my will shall be, To God's behest. |