TRANSLATIONS. COPLAS DE MANRIQUE FROM THE SPANISH. Don Jorge Manrique, the author of the following poem, flourished in the last half of the fifteenth century. He followed the profession of arms, and died on the field of battle. Mariana, in his "History of Spain," makes honourable mention of him, as being present at the siege of Uclès; and speaks of him as a youth of estimable qualities, who in this war, gave brilliant proofs of his valour. He died young; and was thus cut off from long exercising his great virtues, and exhibiting to the world the light of his genius, which was already known to fame.' He was mortally wounded in a skirmish near Canavete, in the year 1479. The name of Rodrigo Manrique, the father of the poet, Conde de Predes and Maestre de Santiago, is well known in Spanish history and song. He died in 1479; according to Mariana, in the town of Uclès; but, according to the poem of his son, in Ocana. It was his death which called forth the poem upon which rests the literary reputation of the younger Manrique. In the language of his historian, "Don Jorge Manrique, in an elegant Ode, full of poetic beauties, rich embellishments of genius, and high moral reflections, mourned the death of his father as with a funeral hymn." This praise is not exaggeration. The poem is a model in its kind. Its conception is solemn and beautiful; and, in accordance with it, the style moves on-calm, dignified, and majestic. O LET the soul her slumbers break, Let the thought be quickened, and awake How soon this life is past and gone, Swiftly our pleasures glide away, The moments that cre speeding fast Onward its course the present keeps, Onward the constant currents sweeps, And, did we judge of time aright, Let no one fondly dream again, That Hope and all her shadowy train Fleeting as were the dreams of old, Our lives are rivers, gliding free, To that unfathomed, boundless sea, Thither all earthly pomp and boast Thither the mighty torrents stray, There all are equal. Side by side I will not here invoke the throng Fiction entices and deceives, The Eternal Truth,-the Good and Wisc,- Who shared on earth our common lot, This world is but the rugged road So let us choose that narrow way, Our cradle is the starting place, When, in the mansions of the blest, 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, Born amid mortal cares and fears, A death of shame. Behold of what delusive worth The bubbles we pursue on earth. The shapes we case, Amid a world of treachery! They vanish ere death shuts the eye, Time steals them from us,-chances strange, 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, The cunning skill, the curious arts, The glorious strength that youth imparts In life's first stage; These shall become a heavy weight, The noble blood of Gothic name, How, in the onward course of time, Some, the degraded slaves of lust, Others, by guilt and crime, maintain Wealth and the high estate of pride, Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay, These gifts in Fortune's hands are found; No rest the inconstant goddess knows Even could the hand of avarice save Its gilded baubles, till the grave Let none on such poor hopes rely; Earthly desires and sensual lust Are passions springing from the dust,- But, in the life beyond the tomb, The pleasures and delights, which mask But the fleet coursers of the chase, No foe, no dangerous pass, we heed, And, when the fatal snare is near, Could we new charms to age impart, As we can clothe the soul with light, How busily each passing hour To deck the sensual slave of sin, Yet leave the freeborn soul within, 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 I speak not of the Trojan name, Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Little avails it now to know Our theme shall be of yesterday, Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Where are the courtly gallantries? Tourney and joust that charmed the eye, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, guy and green, Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odours 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 Where is the mazy dance of old. The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, And he who next the sceptre swayed, Oh, in what winning smiles arrayed, But ah! how false and full of guile She, that had been his friend before, Her charms away. The countless gifts, the stalely walls, 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! His brother, too, whose factious zeal What a gay, brilliant court had he, 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, Spain's haughty Constable,-the true Breathe not a whisper of his pride,- The countless treasures of his care What were they all but grief and shame, His other brothers, proud and high, Mighty rival kings; Who made the bravest and the best What was their prosperous estate, What, but a transient gleam of light, A flame, which, glaring at its height, So many a duke of royal name, That might the sword of empire wield, Their deeds of mercy and of arms, O Death! thy stern and angry face, Unnumbered hosts, that threaten nigh, High battlements entrenched around, And covered trench, secure and deep,- When thou dost battle in thy wrath, Unerringly. His was a Trajan's goodness,-his And righteous laws; The arm of Hector, and the might The clemency of Antonine, The eloquence of Adrian, In tented field and bloody fray The faith of Constantine; ay, more, He left no well-filled treasury, He fought the Moors, and, in their fall, Upon the hard-fought battle-ground, Brave steeds and gallant riders found A common grave; And there the warrior's hand did gain 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 'Twas 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 By his unrivalled skill, by great He stood in his high dignity, He found his cities and domains But, by fierce battle and blockade, By the tried valour of his hand, His monarch and his native land Let Portugal repeat the story, And proud Castile, who shared the glory And when so oft, for weal or woe, When he had served with patriot zeal, And done such deeds of valour strong, Can count them all; Then, on Ocana's castled rock, Saying, "Good Cavalier, prepare Let thy strong heart of steel this day "Since thou hast been, in battle-strife, So prodigal of health and life, For earthly fame, Let virtue nerve thy heart again; "Think not the struggle that draws near Too terrible for man, To meet the foe: Nor let thy noble spirit grieve, Its life of glorious fame to leave On earth below. "A life of honour and of worth Ilas no eternity on earth, "Tis but a name; And yet its glory far exceeds That base and sensual life, which leads "The eternal life, beyond the sky, The soul in dalliance laid,-the spirit "But the good monk, the 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. Cheered onward by this promise sure, Strong in the faith entire and pure Thou dost profess, Depart, thy hope is certainty,— "O Death! no more, no more delay; The will of Heaven my will shall be, My soul is ready to depart, No thought rebels, the obedient heart The wish on earth to linger still Were vain, when 'tis God's sovereign will That we shall die. "O Thou, that for our sins didst take A human form, and humbly make Thou, that to thy divinity And in that form didst suffer here By thy redeeming grace alone, As thus the dying warrior prayed, Encircled by his family, Watched by Affection's gentle eye His soul to Him, who gave it, rose; Its glorious rest! And, though the warrior's sun has set, Its light shall linger round us yet, Bright, radiant, blest.* *This poem of Manrique is a great favourite in Spain. No less than four poetic Glosses, or running commentaries upon it, have been published; no one of which, however, possesses great poetic merit. That of the Carthusian monk, Rodrigo de Valdepenas, is the best. It is known as Glosa del Cartujo. There is also a prose Commentary by Luis de Aranda. The following stanzas of the poem were found in the author's pocket after his death on the field of battle : "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 Left desolate of real good. Within this cheerless solitude No pleasures bloom. "Thy pilgrimage begins in tears, And ends in bitter doubts and fears, Midway so many toils appear, That he who lingers longest here "And thou, brave knight, whose hand has Knows most of care. 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. "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." me. Thou mad'st thy crook from the accursed tree, On which thy powerful arms were stretched so long! Lead me to mercy's ever-flowing fountains: I will obey thy voice, and wait to see Oh, wash away these scarlet sins, for thou Oh, wait!-to thee my weary soul is crying,- TO-MORROW. FROM THE SPANISH OF LOPA DE VEGA. LORD, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me,-that thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O strange delusion!-that I did not greet Thy blest approach, and oh, to Heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon thy feet. How oft my guardian angel gently cried," "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How he persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, oh! how often to that voice of sorrow, To-morrow we will open," I replied, And when the morrow came I answered still, To-morrow." THE NATIVE LAND. FROM THE SPANISH OF FRANCISCO DE ALDANA. CLEAR fount of light! my native land on high, THE BROOK. FROM THE SPANISH. LAUGH of the mountain!-lyre of bird and tree! How without guile thy bosom, all transparent count! Down in the west upon the ocean floor, My master yet had uttered not a word, He cried aloud: "Quick, quick, and bow the knee! Behold the Angel of God! fold up thy hands! Fanning the air with the eternal pinions, Thus sang they all together in one voice, THE TERRESTRIAL PARADISE. FROM DANTE. PURGATORIO, XXVIII. LONGING already to search in and round The heavenly forest, dense and living green, Which to the eyes tempered the new-born day. |