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.

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, Villa, 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, The conquered gave.

And if, of old, his halls displayed
The honored and exalted grade
His worth had gained,

So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
Brothers and bondsmen of his power
His rank sustained.

After high deeds, not left untold,

In the stern warfare, which of old

'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,

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.