The countless treasures of his care,

Hamlets and villas green and fair,

His mighty power,—

What were they all but grief and shame,

Tears and a broken heart, — when came The parting hour!

His other brothers, proud and high,

Masters, who, in prosperity,

Might rival kings;

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

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,

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!

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
Can overthrow.

Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, Pennon and standard flaunting high, And flag displayed ;

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 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.

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 gayeties;

In all how sage!

Benignant to the serf and slave,

He showed the base and falsely brave

A lion's rage.