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.

And he, the good man's shield and shade,
To whom all hearts their homage paid,
As Virtue's son,-

Roderic Manrique,-he whose name

Is written on the scroll of Fame,

Spain's champion;

His signal deeds and prowess high
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 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

How brave a chief!

What prudence with the old and wise:
What grace in youthful gaieties;

In all how sage!

Benignant to the serf and slave,

He showed the base and falsely brave
A lion's

rage.

His was Octavian's prosperous star,
The rush of Cæsar's conquering car
At battle's call;

His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill
And the indomitable will
Of Hannibal.

His was a Trajan's goodness,-his
A Titus' noble charities

And righteous laws;

The arm of Hector, and the might
Of Tully, to maintain the right
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 sway
And stern command;

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,
Brave steeds and gallant riders found
A common grave;

And there the warrior's hand did gain
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed

The honoured and exalted grade

His worth had gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,

Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His hand sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,
In the stern warfare, which of old

'Twas his to share,

Such noble leagues he made, that more
And fairer regions, than before
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
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 domains
Beneath a tyrant's galling chains
And cruel power;

But by fierce battle and blockade,
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.

By the tried valour of his hand,
His monarch and his native land

Were nobly served ;

Let Portugal repeat the story,

And proud Castille, 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 valour 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

With joyful mien;

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,-nor fear
To meet the foe;

Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,

Its life of glorious fame to leave

On earth below.

"A life of honour 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 proud estate;

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,

The guerdon of thine earthly strength
And dauntless hand.

"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.

86

My soul is ready to depart,

No thought rebels, the obedient heart
Breathes forth no sigh;

The wish on earth to linger still

Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will
That we shall die.

"O Thou, that for our sins didst take

A human form, and humbly make

Thy home on earth;

Thou, that to thy divinity

A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth,

"And in that form didst suffer here

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 shade
Upon his mind;

Encircled by his family,

Watched by affection's gentle eye
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.

THE BROOK.

FROM THE SPANISH.

LAUGH of the mountain !-lyre of bird and tree!
Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn!
The soul of April, unto whom are born
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee!
Although where'er thy devious current strays,
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems,
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems
Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze.
How without guile thy bosom, all transparent
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round pebbles count!
How, without malice murmuring, glides thy current!
O sweet simplicity of days gone by!

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell in limpid fount !

D