COPLAS DE DON JORGE MANRIQUE POR
LA MUERTE DE SU PADRE
I
Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso e despierte
contemplando
cómo se passa la vida,
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callando;
cuán presto se va el plazer,
cómo, después de acordado,
da dolor;
cómo, a nuestro parescer,
cualquiere tiempo passado
fue mejor.
II
Pues si vemos lo presente
cómo en un punto s'es ido
e acabado,
si juzgamos sabiamente,
daremos lo non venido
por passado.
Non se engañe nadi, no,
pensando que ha de durar
lo que espera
más que duró lo que vio,
pues que todo ha de passar
por tal manera.
III
Nuestras vidas son los ríos
que van a dar en la mar,
qu'es el morir;
allí van los señoríos
derechos a se acabar
e consumir;
allí los ríos caudales,
allí los otros medianos
e más chicos,
allegados, son iguales
los que viven por sus manos
e los ricos.
INVOCACIÓN
IV
Dexo las invocaciones
de los famosos poetas
y oradores;
non curo de sus ficciones,
que traen yerbas secretas
sus sabores.
Aquél sólo m'encomiendo,
Aquél sólo invoco yo
de verdad,
que en este mundo viviendo,
el mundo non conoció
su deidad.
V
Este mundo es el camino
para el otro, qu'es morada
sin pesar;
mas cumple tener buen tino
para andar esta jornada
sin errar.
Partimos cuando nascemos,
andamos mientra vivimos,
e llegamos
al tiempo que feneçemos;
assí que cuando morimos,
descansamos.
VI
Este mundo bueno fue
si bien usásemos dél
como debemos,
porque, segund nuestra fe,
es para ganar aquél
que atendemos.
Aun aquel fijo de Dios
para sobirnos al cielo
descendió
a nescer acá entre nos,
y a vivir en este suelo
do murió.
VII
Si fuesse en nuestro poder
hazer la cara hermosa
corporal,
como podemos hazer
el alma tan glorïosa
angelical,
¡qué diligencia tan viva
toviéramos toda hora
e tan presta,
en componer la cativa,
dexándonos la señora
descompuesta!
VIII
Ved de cuán poco valor
son las cosas tras que andamos
y corremos,
que, en este mundo traidor,
aun primero que muramos
las perdemos.
Dellas deshaze la edad,
dellas casos desastrados
que acaeçen,
dellas, por su calidad,
en los más altos estados
desfallescen.
IX
Dezidme: La hermosura,
la gentil frescura y tez
de la cara,
la color e la blancura,
cuando viene la vejez,
¿cuál se para?
Las mañas e ligereza
e la fuerça corporal
de juventud,
todo se torna graveza
cuando llega el arrabal
de senectud.
X
Pues la sangre de los godos,
y el linaje e la nobleza
tan crescida,
¡por cuántas vías e modos
se pierde su grand alteza
en esta vida!
Unos, por poco valer,
por cuán baxos e abatidos
que los tienen;
otros que, por non tener,
con oficios non debidos
se mantienen.
XI
Los estados e riqueza,
que nos dexen a deshora
¿quién lo duda?,
non les pidamos firmeza.
pues que son d'una señora;
que se muda,
que bienes son de Fortuna
que revuelven con su rueda
presurosa,
la cual non puede ser una
ni estar estable ni queda
en una cosa.
XII
Pero digo c'acompañen
e lleguen fasta la fuessa
con su dueño:
por esso non nos engañen,
pues se va la vida apriessa
como sueño,
e los deleites d'acá
son, en que nos deleitamos,
temporales,
e los tormentos d'allá,
que por ellos esperamos,
eternales.
XIII
Los plazeres e dulçores
desta vida trabajada
que tenemos,
non son sino corredores,
e la muerte, la çelada
en que caemos.
Non mirando a nuestro daño,
corremos a rienda suelta
sin parar;
desque vemos el engaño
y queremos dar la vuelta
no hay lugar.
XIV
Esos reyes poderosos
que vemos por escripturas
ya passadas
con casos tristes, llorosos,
fueron sus buenas venturas
trastornadas;
assí, que no hay cosa fuerte,
que a papas y emperadores
e perlados,
assí los trata la muerte
como a los pobres pastores
de ganados.
XV
Dexemos a los troyanos,
que sus males non los vimos,
ni sus glorias;
dexemos a los romanos,
aunque oímos e leímos
sus hestorias;
non curemos de saber
lo d'aquel siglo passado
qué fue d'ello;
vengamos a lo d'ayer,
que también es olvidado
como aquello.
XVI
¿Qué se hizo el rey don Joan?
Los infantes d'Aragón
¿qué se hizieron?
¿Qué fue de tanto galán,
qué de tanta invinción
como truxeron?
¿Fueron sino devaneos,
qué fueron sino verduras
de las eras,
las justas e los torneos,
paramentos, bordaduras
e çimeras?
XVII
¿Qué se hizieron las damas,
sus tocados e vestidos,
sus olores?
¿Qué se hizieron las llamas
de los fuegos encendidos
d'amadores?
¿Qué se hizo aquel trovar,
las músicas acordadas
que tañían?
¿Qué se hizo aquel dançar,
aquellas ropas chapadas
que traían?
XVIII
Pues el otro, su heredero
don Anrique, ¡qué poderes
alcançaba!
¡Cuánd blando, cuánd halaguero
el mundo con sus plazeres
se le daba!
Mas verás cuánd enemigo,
cuánd contrario, cuánd cruel
se le mostró;
habiéndole sido amigo,
¡cuánd poco duró con él
lo que le dio!
XIX
Las dávidas desmedidas,
los edeficios reales
llenos d'oro,
las vaxillas tan fabridas
los enriques e reales
del tesoro,
los jaezes, los caballos
de sus gentes e atavíos
tan sobrados
¿dónde iremos a buscallos?;
¿qué fueron sino rocíos
de los prados?
XX
Pues su hermano el innocente
qu'en su vida sucesor
se llamó
¡qué corte tan excellente
tuvo, e cuánto grand señor
le siguió!
Mas, como fuesse mortal,
metióle la Muerte luego
en su fragua.
¡Oh jüicio divinal!,
cuando más ardía el fuego,
echaste agua.
XXI
Pues aquel grand Condestable,
maestre que conoscimos
tan privado,
non cumple que dél se hable,
mas sólo como lo vimos
degollado.
Sus infinitos tesoros,
sus villas e sus lugares,
su mandar,
¿qué le fueron sino lloros?,
¿qué fueron sino pesares
al dexar?
XXII
E los otros dos hermanos,
maestres tan prosperados
como reyes,
c'a los grandes e medianos
truxieron tan sojuzgados
a sus leyes;
aquella prosperidad
qu'en tan alto fue subida
y ensalzada,
¿qué fue sino claridad
que cuando más encendida
fue amatada?
XXIII
Tantos duques excelentes,
tantos marqueses e condes
e varones
como vimos tan potentes,
dí, Muerte, ¿dó los escondes,
e traspones?
E las sus claras hazañas
que hizieron en las guerras
y en las pazes,
cuando tú, cruda, t'ensañas,
con tu fuerça, las atierras
e desfazes.
XXIV
Las huestes inumerables,
los pendones, estandartes
e banderas,
los castillos impugnables,
los muros e balüartes
e barreras,
la cava honda, chapada,
o cualquier otro reparo,
¿qué aprovecha?
Cuando tú vienes airada,
todo lo passas de claro
con tu flecha.
XXV
Aquel de buenos abrigo,
amado, por virtuoso,
de la gente,
el maestre don Rodrigo
Manrique, tanto famoso
e tan valiente;
sus hechos grandes e claros
non cumple que los alabe,
pues los vieron;
ni los quiero hazer caros,
pues qu'el mundo todo sabe
cuáles fueron.
XXVI
Amigo de sus amigos,
¡qué señor para criados
e parientes!
¡Qué enemigo d'enemigos!
¡Qué maestro d'esforçados
e valientes!
¡Qué seso para discretos!
¡Qué gracia para donosos!
¡Qué razón!
¡Qué benino a los sujetos!
¡A los bravos e dañosos,
qué león!
XXVII
En ventura, Octavïano;
Julio César en vencer
e batallar;
en la virtud, Africano;
Aníbal en el saber
e trabajar;
en la bondad, un Trajano;
Tito en liberalidad
con alegría;
en su braço, Aureliano;
Marco Atilio en la verdad
que prometía.
XXVIII
Antoño Pío en clemencia;
Marco Aurelio en igualdad
del semblante;
Adriano en la elocuencia;
Teodosio en humanidad
e buen talante.
Aurelio Alexandre fue
en desciplina e rigor
de la guerra;
un Constantino en la fe,
Camilo en el grand amor
de su tierra.
XXIX
Non dexó grandes tesoros,
ni alcançó muchas riquezas
ni vaxillas;
mas fizo guerra a los moros
ganando sus fortalezas
e sus villas;
y en las lides que venció,
cuántos moros e cavallos
se perdieron;
y en este oficio ganó
las rentas e los vasallos
que le dieron.
XXX
Pues por su honra y estado,
en otros tiempos passados
¿cómo s'hubo?
Quedando desamparado,
con hermanos e criados
se sostuvo.
Después que fechos famosos
fizo en esta misma guerra
que hazía,
fizo tratos tan honrosos
que le dieron aun más tierra
que tenía.
XXXI
Estas sus viejas hestorias
que con su braço pintó
en joventud,
con otras nuevas victorias
agora las renovó
en senectud.
Por su gran habilidad,
por méritos e ancianía
bien gastada,
alcançó la dignidad
de la grand Caballería
dell Espada.
XXXII
E sus villas e sus tierras,
ocupadas de tiranos
las halló;
mas por çercos e por guerras
e por fuerça de sus manos
las cobró.
Pues nuestro rey natural,
si de las obras que obró
fue servido,
dígalo el de Portogal,
y, en Castilla, quien siguió
su partido.
XXXIII
Después de puesta la vida
tantas vezes por su ley
al tablero;
después de tan bien servida
la corona de su rey
verdadero;
después de tanta hazaña
a que non puede bastar
cuenta cierta,
en la su villa d'Ocaña
vino la Muerte a llamar
a su puerta,
XXXIV
diziendo: "Buen caballero,
dexad el mundo engañoso
e su halago;
vuestro corazón d'azero
muestre su esfuerço famoso
en este trago;
e pues de vida e salud
fezistes tan poca cuenta
por la fama;
esfuércese la virtud
para sofrir esta afruenta
que vos llama."
XXXV
"Non se vos haga tan amarga
la batalla temerosa
qu'esperáis,
pues otra vida más larga
de la fama glorïosa
acá dexáis.
Aunqu'esta vida d'honor
tampoco no es eternal
ni verdadera;
mas, con todo, es muy mejor
que la otra temporal,
peresçedera."
XXXVI
"El vivir qu'es perdurable
non se gana con estados
mundanales,
ni con vida delectable
donde moran los pecados
infernales;
mas los buenos religiosos
gánanlo con oraciones
e con lloros;
los caballeros famosos,
con trabajos e aflicciones
contra moros."
XXXVII
"E pues vos, claro varón,
tanta sangre derramastes
de paganos,
esperad el galardón
que en este mundo ganastes
por las manos;
e con esta confiança
e con la fe tan entera
que tenéis,
partid con buena esperança,
qu'estotra vida tercera
ganaréis."
[Responde el Maestre:]
XXXVIII
"Non tengamos tiempo ya
en esta vida mesquina
por tal modo,
que mi voluntad está
conforme con la divina
para todo;
e consiento en mi morir
con voluntad plazentera,
clara e pura,
que querer hombre vivir
cuando Dios quiere que muera,
es locura."
[Del maestre a Jesús]
XXXIX
"Tú que, por nuestra maldad,
tomaste forma servil
e baxo nombre;
tú, que a tu divinidad
juntaste cosa tan vil
como es el hombre;
tú, que tan grandes tormentos
sofriste sin resistencia
en tu persona,
non por mis merescimientos,
mas por tu sola clemencia
me perdona".
FIN
XL
Assí, con tal entender,
todos sentidos humanos
conservados,
cercado de su mujer
y de sus hijos e hermanos
e criados,
dio el alma a quien gela dio
(el cual la ponga en el cielo
en su gloria),
que aunque la vida perdió,
dexónos harto consuelo
su memoria.
OH let the soul her slumbers
break,
Let thought be quickened, and
awake;
Awake to see
How soon this life is past and
gone,
And death comes softly stealing
on,
How silently!
Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;
The moments that are speeding
fast
We heed not, but the past, — the
past,
More highly prize.
Onward its course the present
keeps,
Onward the constant current
sweeps,
Till life is done;
And, did we judge of time aright,
The past and future in their
flight
Would be as one.
Let no one fondly dream again,
That Hope and all her shadowy
train
Will not decay;
Fleeting as were the dreams of
old,
Remembered like a tale that ‘s
told,
They pass away.
Our lives are rivers, gliding
free
To that unfathomed, boundless
sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and
boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.
Thither the mighty torrents
stray,
Thither the brook pursues its
way,
And tinkling rill.
There all are equal; side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.
I will not here invoke the throng
Of orators and sons of song,
The deathless few;
Fiction entices and deceives,
And, sprinkled o’er her fragrant
leaves,
Lies poisonous dew.
To One alone my thoughts arise,
The Eternal Truth, the Good and
Wise,
To Him I cry,
Who shared on earth our common
lot,
But the world comprehended not
His deity.
This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright
abode
Of peace above;
So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller’s foot
astray
From realms of love.
Our cradle is the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the goal
When, in the mansions of the
blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.
Did we but use it as we ought,
This world would school each
wandering thought
To its high state.
Faith wings the soul beyond the
sky,
Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.
Yes, the glad messenger of love,
To guide us to our home above,
The Saviour came;
Born amid mortal cares and
fears,
He suffered in this vale of tears
A death of shame.
Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase
Amid a world of treachery!
They vanish ere death shuts the
eye,
And leave no trace.
Time steals them from us, chances
strange,
Disastrous accident, and change,
That come to all;
Even in the most exalted state,
Relentless sweeps the stroke of
fate;
The strongest fall.
Tell me, the charms that lovers
seek
In the clear eye and blushing
cheek,
The hues that play
O’er rosy lip and brow of snow,
When hoary age approaches slow,
Ah, where are they?
The cunning skill, the curious
arts,
The glorious strength that youth
imparts
In life’s first stage;
These shall become a heavy
weight,
When Time swings wide his outward
gate
To weary age.
The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;
How, in the onward course of
time,
The landmarks of that race
sublime
Were swept away!
Some, the degraded slaves of
lust,
Prostrate and trampled in the
dust,
Shall rise no more;
Others, by guilt and crime,
maintain
The scutcheon, that, without a
stain,
Their fathers bore.
Wealth and the high estate of
pride,
With what untimely speed they
glide,
How soon depart!
Bid not the shadowy phantoms
stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.
These gifts in Fortune’s hands
are found;
Her swift revolving wheel turns
round,
And they are gone!
No rest the inconstant goddess
knows,
But changing, and without repose,
Still hurries on.
Even could the hand of avarice
save
Its gilded baubles, till the
grave
Reclaimed its prey,
Let none on such poor hopes rely;
Life, like an empty dream, flits
by,
And where are they?
Earthly desires and sensual lust
Are passions springing from the
dust,
They fade and die;
But, in the life beyond the
tomb, 130
They seal the immortal spirit’s
doom
Eternally!
The pleasures and delights, which
mask
In treacherous smiles life’s
serious task,
What are they all
But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?
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,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,
As we can clothe the soul with
light,
And make the glorious spirit
bright
With heavenly grace,
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,
Famous in history and in song
Of olden time,
Saw, by the stern decrees of
fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.
Who is the champion? who the
strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptred
throng?
On these shall fall
As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd’s
breath
Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name,
Neither its glory nor its shame
Has met our eyes;
Nor of Rome’s great and glorious
dead,
Though we have heard so oft, and
read,
Their histories.
Little avails it now to know
Of ages passed so long ago,
Nor how they rolled;
Our theme shall be of yesterday,
Which to oblivion sweeps away,
Like days of old.
Where is the King, Don Juan?
Where
Each royal prince and noble heir
Of Aragon?
Where are the courtly
gallantries?
The deeds of love and high
emprise,
In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed
the eye,
And scarf, and gorgeous panoply,
And nodding plume,
What were they but a pageant
scene?
What but the garlands, gay and
green,
That deck the tomb?
Where are the high-born dames,
and where
Their gay attire, and jewelled
hair,
And odors sweet?
Where are the gentle knights,
that came
To kneel, and breathe love’s
ardent flame,
Low at their feet?
Where is the song of Troubadour?
Where are the lute and gay
tambour
They loved of yore?
Where is the mazy dance of old,
The flowing robes, inwrought with
gold,
The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre
swayed,
Henry, whose royal court
displayed
Such power and pride;
Oh, in what winning smiles
arrayed,
The world its various pleasures
laid
His throne beside!
But oh, how false and full of
guile
That world, which wore so soft a
smile
But to betray!
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,
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
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
true
And gallant Master, whom we knew
Most loved of all;
Breathe not a whisper of his
pride,
He on the gloomy scaffold died,
Ignoble fall!
The countless treasures of his
care,
His villages and villas 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.
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,
City 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,
That conquest 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 hand 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.
By his unrivalled skill, by great
And veteran service to the state,
By worth adored,
He stood, in his high dignity,
The proudest knight of chivalry,
Knight of the Sword.
He found his cities and domains
Beneath a tyrant’s galling chains
And cruel power;
But, by fierce battle and
blockade,
Soon his own banner was displayed
From every tower.
By the tried valor of his hand,
His monarch and his native land
Were nobly served;
Let Portugal repeat the story,
And proud Castile, who shared the
glory
His arms deserved.
And when so oft, for weal or woe,
His life upon the fatal throw
Had been cast down;
When he had served, with patriot
zeal,
Beneath the banner of Castile,
His sovereign’s crown;
And done such deeds of valor
strong,
That neither history nor song
Can count them all;
Then, on Ocaña’s castled rock,
Death at his portal came to
knock,
With sudden call,
Saying, “Good Cavalier, prepare
To leave this world of toil and
care
With joyful mien;
Let thy strong heart of steel
this day
Put on its armor for the fray,
The closing scene.
“Since thou hast been, in
battle-strife,
So prodigal of health and life,
For earthly fame,
Let virtue nerve thy heart again;
Loud on the last stern
battle-plain
They call thy name.
“Think not the struggle that
draws near
Too terrible for man, nor fear
To meet the foe;
Nor let thy noble spirit grieve,
Its life of glorious fame to
leave
On earth below.
“A life of honor and of worth
Has no eternity on earth,
‘T is but a name;
And yet its glory far exceeds
That base and sensual life, which
leads
To want and shame.
“The eternal life, beyond the
sky,
Wealth cannot purchase, nor the
high
And proud estate;
The soul in dalliance laid, the
spirit
Corrupt with sin, shall not
inherit
A joy so great.
“But the good monk, in cloistered
cell,
Shall gain it by his book and
bell,
His prayers and tears;
And the brave knight, whose arm
endures
Fierce battle, and against the
Moors
His standard rears.
“And thou, brave knight, whose
hand has poured
The life-blood of the Pagan horde
O’er all the land,
In heaven shalt thou receive, at
length,
The guerdon of thine earthly
strength
And dauntless hand.
“Cheered onward by this promise
sure,
Strong in the faith entire and
pure
Thou dost profess,
Depart, thy hope is certainty,
The third, the better life on
high
Shalt thou possess.”
“O Death, no more, no more delay;
My spirit longs to flee away,
And be at rest;
The will of Heaven my will shall
be,
I bow to the divine decree,
To God’s behest.
“My soul is ready to depart,
No thought rebels, the obedient
heart
Breathes forth no sigh;
The wish on earth to linger still
Were vain, when ‘t is God’s
sovereign will
That we shall die.
“O thou, that for our sins didst
take
A human form, and humbly make
Thy home on earth;
Thou, that to thy divinity
A human nature didst ally
By mortal birth,
“And in that form didst suffer
here
Torment, and agony, and fear,
So patiently;
By thy redeeming grace alone,
And not for merits of my own,
Oh, pardon me!”
As thus the dying warrior prayed,
Without one gathering mist or
shade
Upon his mind;
Encircled by his family,
Watched by affection’s gentle eye
So soft and kind;
His soul to Him who gave it rose;
God lead it to its long repose,
Its glorious rest!
And, though the warrior’s sun has
set,
Its light shall linger round us
yet,
Bright, radiant, blest.
