« ZurückWeiter »
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
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
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
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;
In all how sage!
Benignant to the serf and slave,
He showed the base and falsely brave
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,
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,
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,
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
So, in the dark, disastrous hour,
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.