But O! how false and full of guile, That world, which wore so soft a smile She that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away. The countless gifts, -the stately walls, The royal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold; The noble steeds, and harness bright, And gallant lord, and stalwart knight, 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, 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! Spain's haughty Constable, the great And gallant Master, cruel fate Stripped him of all. Breathe not a whisper of his pride, He on the gloomy scaffold died, Ignoble fall! 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, 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, 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, O Death, thy stern and angry face, 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. |