TRANSLATIONS. [Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his History of Spain, makes honorable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclés; and speaks of him as "a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war gave brilliant proofs of his valor. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame." He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Cañavete, in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Paredes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1476; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclés; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocaña. It was his death that called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggerated. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on, calm, dignified, and majestic.] Time steals them from us, chances Earthly desires and sensual lust Tell me, the charms that lovers seek O'er rosy lip and brow of snow, The cunning skill, the curious arts, These shall become a heavy weight, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Are passions springing from the dust, They fade and die; But, in the life beyond the tomb, They seal the immortal spirit's doom Eternally! The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, Brook no delay, but onward speed 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, As we can clothe the soul with light, 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, In weeds of woe! Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Where is the song of Troubadour? Where are the lute and gay tambour They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside ! 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, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, In rich array, 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, 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, Judgment of God! that flame by thee, Spain's haughty Constable, the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride, The countless treasures of his care, His villages and villas fair, His mighty power, What were they all but grief and shame, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, Tears and a broken heart, when came The dancers wore ? And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; 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, 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, When thou dost battle in thy wrath, 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, Midway so many toils appear, 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, And he, the good man's shield and shade, Roderic Manrique, he whose name His signal deeds and prowess high 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 To foes how stern a foe was he ! What prudence with the old and wise : Benignant to the serf and slave, His was Octavian's prosperous star, His, Scipio's virtue; his, the skill His was a Trajan's goodness, his A Titus' noble charities And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, Let Portugal repeat the story, 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 fought the Moors, and, in their fall, 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 These are the records, half effaced, But with fresh victories he drew By his unrivalled skill, by great He stood, in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains But, by fierce battle and blockade, By the tried valor of his hand, And proud Castile, who shared the glory His arms deserved. |