Verse > Henry Wadsworth Longfellow > Complete Poetical Works
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807–1882).  Complete Poetical Works.  1893.
From the Spanish.
Coplas de Manrique
OH let the soul her slumbers break,
Let thought be quickened, and awake;
Awake to see
How soon this life is past and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on,        5
How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding fast        10
We heed not, but the past,—the past,
More highly prize.
Onward its course the present keeps,
Onward the constant current sweeps,
Till life is done;        15
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their flight
Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy train        20
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of old,
Remembered like a tale that ’s told,
They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding free        25
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.        30
Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.
There all are equal; side by side
The poor man and the son of pride        35
Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,        40
And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise,
To Him I cry,        45
Who shared on earth our common lot,
But the world comprehended not
His deity.
This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode        50
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller’s foot astray
From realms of love.
Our cradle is the starting-place,        55
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the goal
When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.        60
Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each wandering thought
To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Up to that better world on high,        65
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and fears,        70
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase        75
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.
Time steals them from us, chances strange,
Disastrous accident, and change,        80
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        85
In the clear eye and blushing cheek,
The hues that play
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah, where are they?        90
The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts
In life’s first stage;
These shall become a heavy weight,
When Time swings wide his outward gate        95
To weary age.
The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;
How, in the onward course of time,        100
The landmarks of that race sublime
Were swept away!
Some, the degraded slaves of lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the dust,
Shall rise no more;        105
Others, by guilt and crime, maintain
The scutcheon, that, without a stain,
Their fathers bore.
Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,        110
How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.
These gifts in Fortune’s hands are found;        115
Her swift revolving wheel turns round,
And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess knows,
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.        120
Even could the hand of avarice save
Its gilded baubles, till the grave
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits by,        125
And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual lust
Are passions springing from the dust,
They fade and die;
But, in the life beyond the tomb,        130
They seal the immortal spirit’s doom
The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherous smiles life’s serious task,
What are they all        135
But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?
No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed,
Brook no delay, but onward speed        140
With loosened rein;
And, when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.
Could we new charms to age impart,        145
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace,        150
How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power!
What ardor show,
To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the freeborn soul within,        155
In weeds of woe!
Monarchs, the powerful and the strong,
Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,        160
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.
Who is the champion? who the strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred throng?
On these shall fall        165
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd’s breath
Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame        170
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        175
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.        180
Where is the King, Don Juan? Where
Each royal prince and noble heir
Of Aragon?
Where are the courtly gallantries?
The deeds of love and high emprise,        185
In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume,
What were they but a pageant scene?        190
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 odors sweet?        195
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        200
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with gold,
The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre swayed,        205
Henry, whose royal court displayed
Such power and pride;
Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed,
The world its various pleasures laid
His throne beside!        210
But oh, how false and full of guile
That world, which wore so soft a smile
But to betray!
She, that had been his friend before,
Now from the fated monarch tore        215
Her charms away.
The countless gifts, the stately walls,
The royal palaces, and halls,
All filled with gold;
Plate with armorial bearings wrought,        220
Chambers with ample treasures fraught
Of wealth untold;
The noble steeds, and harness bright,
And gallant lord, and stalwart knight,
In rich array,        225
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,        230
Unskilled to reign;
What a gay, brilliant court had he,
When all the flower of chivalry
Was in his train!
But he was mortal; and the breath        235
That flamed from the hot forge of Death
Blasted his years;
Judgment of God! that flame by thee,
When raging fierce and fearfully,
Was quenched in tears!        240
Spain’s haughty Constable, the true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all;
Breathe not a whisper of his pride,
He on the gloomy scaffold died,        245
Ignoble fall!
The countless treasures of his care,
His villages and villas fair,
His mighty power,
What were they all but grief and shame,        250
Tears and a broken heart, when came
The parting hour?
His other brothers, proud and high,
Masters, who, in prosperity,
Might rival kings;        255
Who made the bravest and the best
The bondsmen of their high behest,
Their underlings;
What was their prosperous estate,
When high exalted and elate        260
With power and pride?
What, but a transient gleam of light,
A flame, which, glaring at its height,
Grew dim and died?
So many a duke of royal name,        265
Marquis and count of spotless fame,
And baron brave,
That might the sword of empire wield,
All these, O Death, hast thou concealed
In the dark grave!        270
Their deeds of mercy and of arms,
In peaceful days, or war’s alarms,
When thou dost show,
O Death, thy stern and angry face,
One stroke of thy all-powerful mace        275
Can overthrow.
Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh,
Pennon and standard flaunting high,
And flag displayed;
High battlements intrenched around,        280
Bastion, and moated wall, and mound,
And palisade,
And covered trench, secure and deep,
All these cannot one victim keep,
O Death, from thee,        285
When thou dost battle in thy wrath,
And thy strong shafts pursue their path
O World! so few the years we live,
Would that the life which thou dost give        290
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,        295
And sorrows neither few nor brief
Veil all in gloom;
Left desolate of real good,
Within this cheerless solitude
No pleasures bloom.        300
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        305
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,        310
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,        315
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,        320
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        325
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!        330
What prudence with the old and wise:
What grace in youthful gayeties;
In all how sage!
Benignant to the serf and slave,
He showed the base and falsely brave        335
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        340
And the indomitable will
Of Hannibal.
His was a Trajan’s goodness, his
A Titus’ noble charities
And righteous laws;        345
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,        350
Firm, gentle, still;
The eloquence of Adrian,
And Theodosius’ love to man,
And generous will;
In tented field and bloody fray,        355
An Alexander’s vigorous sway
And stern command;
The faith of Constantine; ay, more,
The fervent love Camillus bore
His native land.        360
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        365
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        370
The rents, and the long vassal train,
That conquest gave.
And if of old his halls displayed
The honored and exalted grade
His worth had gained,        375
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        380
’T was his to share,
Such noble leagues he made that more
And fairer regions than before
His guerdon were.
These are the records, half effaced,        385
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.        390
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,        395
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,        400
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.
By the tried valor of his hand,
His monarch and his native land
Were nobly served;        405
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        410
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,        415
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,        420
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 armor for the fray,        425
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;        430
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;        435
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,
Its life of glorious fame to leave
On earth below.
“A life of honor and of worth
Has no eternity on earth,        440
’T is 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,        445
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the high
And proud estate;
The soul in dalliance laid, the spirit
Corrupt with sin, shall not inherit
A joy so great.        450
“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        455
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,        460
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,        465
Depart, thy hope is certainty,
The third, the better life on high
Shalt thou possess.”
“O Death, no more, no more delay;
My spirit longs to flee away,        470
And be at rest;
The will of Heaven my will shall be,
I bow to the divine decree,
To God’s behest.
“My soul is ready to depart,        475
No thought rebels, the obedient heart
Breathes forth no sigh;
The wish on earth to linger still
Were vain, when ’t is God’s sovereign will
That we shall die.        480
“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        485
By mortal birth,
“And in that form didst suffer here
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently;
By thy redeeming grace alone,        490
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, pardon me!”
As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or shade
Upon his mind;        495
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,        500
Its glorious rest!
And, though the warrior’s sun has set,
Its light shall linger round us yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.

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