Born amid mortal cares and fears, Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, Time steals them from us,-chances strange, Disastrous accidents, 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 seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts These shall become a heavy weight, When Time swings wide his outward gate 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 sublime Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, Of fickle heart. These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; 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, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour What ardour show, To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, In weeds of woe! Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Saw, by the stern decrees of fate, Who is the champion? who the strong? On these shall fall As heavily the hand of Death, As when it stays the shepherd's breath I speak not of the Trojan name, Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, 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 Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, 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 where Their gay attire and jewelled hair, And odours sweet? Where are the gentle knights, that came To kneel, and breathe love's ardent flame, Low at their feet? Where is the song of Troubadour ? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? 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, The countless gifts,-the stately walls, Plate with armorial bearings wrought, The noble steeds and harness bright, Where shall we seek them now? Alas! Like the bright dewdrops on the grass, They passed away. His brother, too, whose factious zeal Usurped the sceptre of Castile, What a gay, brilliant court had he, When all the flower of chivalry 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, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true And gallant Master, whom we knew Breathe not a whisper of his pride, — The countless treasures of his care, What were they all but grief and shame, His other brothers, proud and high, Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, 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, And covered trench, secure and deep,- 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. |