miércoles, 11 de junio de 2025

Jorge Manrique y Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: Coplas por la muerte de su padre

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.

JORGE MANRIQUE


COPLAS DE MANRIQUE

 

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.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW