Jorge Manrique

The Coplas on the Death of His Father, the Grand-Master of Santiago

       

The Introit

 
Let from its dream the soul awaken,
   And reason mark with open eyes
       The scene unfolding,—
How lightly life away is taken,
   How cometh Death in stealthy guise,—
       At last beholding;
 
What swiftness hath the flight of pleasure
   That, once attained, seems nothing more
       Than respite cold;
How fain is memory to measure
   Each latter day inferior
       To those of old.
 
Beholding how each instant flies
   So swift, that, as we count, 'tis gone
        Beyond recover,
Let us resolve to be more wise
   Than stake our future lot upon
       What soon is over.
 
Let none be self-deluding, none,—
   Imagining some longer stay
       For his own treasure
Than what today he sees undone;
   For everything must pass away
       In equal measure.
 
Our lives are fated as the rivers
   That gather downward to the sea
       We know as Death;
And thither every flood delivers
   The pride and pomp of seigniory
       That forfeiteth;
 
Thither, the rivers in their splendor;
   Thither, the streams of modest worth,—
       The rills beside them;
Till there all equal they surrender;
   And so with those who toil on earth,
       And those who guide them.
 
 
       

The Invocation

 
I turn me from the praise and singing
   Of panegyrists, and the proud
       Old poets' stories;
I would not have them hither bringing
   Their artful potions that but cloud
       His honest glories;
 
On Him Alone I lay my burden—
   Him only do I now implore
       In my distress,—
Who came on earth and had for guerdon
   The scorn of man that did ignore
       His Godliness.
 
This world is but a highway going
   Unto that other, the abode
       Without a sorrow;
The wise are they who gird them, knowing
   The guideposts set along that road
       Unto tomorrow.
 
We start with birth upon that questing;
   We journey all the while we live,
       Our goal attaining
The day alone that brings us resting,
   When Death shall last quiétus give
       To all complaining.
 
This were a hallowed world indeed,
   Did we but give it the employ
       That was intended;
For by the precepts of our Creed
   We earn hereby a life of joy
       When this is ended.
 
The Son of God Himself on earth
   Came down to raise our lowly race
       Unto the sky;
Here took upon Him human birth;
   Here lived among us for a space;
       And here did die.
 
Behold what miserable prize—
   What futile task we set upon,
       Whilst greed awakes us!
And what a traitor world of lies
   Is this, whose very gifts are gone
       Ere Death o'ertakes us!
 
Some through increasing age deprived,
   Some by unhappy turn of fate
       Destroyed and banished,
Some, as with blight inherent rived
   At topmost of their branching state,
       Have failed and vanished.
 
Yea, tell me shall the lovely blason,
   The gentle freshness and contour
       Of smiling faces,—
The blush and pallor's sweet occasion,—
   Of all—shall one a truce secure
       From Time's grim traces?
 
The flowing tress, the stature slender,
   The corporal litheness, and the strength
       Of gallant youth,—
All, all,—to weariness surrender
   As o'er them falls the shadow's length
       Of age in truth.
 
The Visigoths whose lineage kingly
   Whose feats of war and mighty reign
       Were so exalted,—
What divers ways did all and singly
   Drop down to the obscure again
       And were defaulted!
 
Some through their worthlessness (How lowly
   And base among the rabble came
       Their estimation!)
Whilst others as a refuge solely
   In offices they only shame
       Maintain their station.
 
Estate and luxury's providing
   Can leave us pauper—who may doubt?—
       Within an hour;
Let us not count on their abiding,
   Since there is nothing sure about
       Dame Fortune's dower.
 
Hers are the gifts of one unstable
   Upon her globe as swift as light
       Revolving ever;
Who to be constant is unable,
   Who cannot stay nor rest from flight
       On aughtsoever.
 
And though, say I, her highest favor
   Should follow to the tomb and heap
       With wreaths her master;
Let not our solid judgment waver
   Since life is like a dream and sleep
       Flies nothing faster.
 
The soft occasions of today
   Wherein we find our joy and ease
       Are but diurnal;
Whilst the dread torments that must pay
   The cost of our iniquities
       Shall be eternal.
 
The pleasures light, the fond evasions
   That life on troubled earth deploys
       For eyes of mortals,
What are they but the fair persuasions
   Of labyrinths where Death decoys
       To trap-like portals?
 
Where heedless of the doom ensuing
   We hasten laughing to the snare
       Without suspicion.
Until aghast at our undoing,
   We turn to find the bolt is there,
       And our perdition.
 
Could we but have procured the power
   To make our faded youth anew
       Both fresh and whole,
As now through life's probation hour
   'Tis ours to give angelic hue
       Unto the soul,—
 
What ceaseless care we then had taken,
   What pains had welcomed, so to bring
       A health but human,—
Our summer bloom to re-awaken,
   Our stains to clear,—outrivalling
       The arts of woman!
 
The kings whose mighty deeds are spacious
   Upon the parchments of the years,
       Alas!—the weeping
That overtook their boast audacious.
   And swept their thrones to grime and tears
       And sorrow's keeping!
 
Naught else proves any more enduring;
   Nor are the popes, nor emperors,
       Nor prelatries
A longer stay or truce securing
   Than the poor herdsman of the moors
       From Death's decrees.
 
Recount no more of Troy, or foeman
   The echo of whose wars is now
       But far tradition;
Recount no more how fared the Roman
   (His scroll of glories we allow)
       Nor his perdition;
 
Nor here rehearse the homely fable
   Of such as yielded up their sway
       These decades gone;
But let us say what lamentable
   Fate the lords of yesterday
       Have fallen upon.
 
Of fair Don Juan the king that ruled us,—
   Of those hight heirs of Aragon,—
       What are the tidings?
Of him, whose courtly graces schooled us,
   Whom song and wisdom smiled upon,
       Where the abidings?
 
The jousts and tourneys where vaunted
   With trappings, and caparison,
       And armor sheathing,—
Were they but phantasies that taunted,—
   But blades of grass that vanished on
       A summer's breathing?
 
What of the dames of birth and station,
   Their head-attire, their sweeping trains,
       Their vesture scented?
What of that gallant conflagration
   They made of lovers' hearts whose pains
       Were uncontented?
 
And what of him, that troubadour
   Whose melting lutany and rime
       Was all their pleasure?
Ah, what of her who danced demure,
   And trailed her robes of olden time
       So fair a measure?
 
Then Don Enriqué, in succession,
   His brother's heir,—think, to what height
       Was he annointed!
What blandishment and sweet possession
   The world prepared for his delight,
       As seemed appointed!
 
Yet see what unrelenting foeman,
   What cruel adversary, Fate
       To him became;
A friend befriended as was no man—
   How brief for him endured the state
       His birth might claim.
 
The golden bounties without stinting,
   The strongholds and the lairs of kings
       With treasure glutted;
The flagons of their wassail glinting,
   The sceptres, orbs, and crowns, and rings
       With which they strutted;
 
The steeds, the spurs, and bits to rein them,
   The pillions draped unto the ground
       Beneath their paces,—
Ah, whither must we fare to gain them?—
   That were but as the dews around
       The meadow places.
 
His brother then, the unoffending,
   Who was intruded on his reign
       To act as heir,—
What gallant court was round him bending,
   How many a haughty lord was fain
       To tend him there!
 
Yet as but mortal was his station,
   Death for his goblet soon distilled
       A draught for draining;
O Thou Divine Predestination!—
   When most his blaze the world had filled
       Thou sent'st the raining!
 
And then, Don Alvaro, Grand-Master
   And Constable, whom we have known
       When loved and dreaded,—
What need to tell of his disaster,
   Since we behold him overthrown
       And swift beheaded!
 
His treasures that defied accounting,
   His manors and his feudal lands,
       His boundless power,—
What more than tears were their amounting?
   What more than bonds to tie his hands
       At life's last hour?
 
That other twain, Grand-Masters solely,
   Yet with the fortunes as of kings
       Fraternal reigning,—
Who brought the high as well as lowly
   Submissive to their challengings
       And laws' ordaining.
 
And what of all their power and prize
   That touched the very peaks of fame
       That none could limit?—
A conflagration 'gainst the skies,
   Till at its brightest ruthless came
       Death's hand to dim it.
 
The dukes so many and excelling,
   The marquises, and counts, the throng
       Of barons splendid,
Speak, Death, where hast thou hid their dwelling?
   The sway we saw them wield so strong—
       How was it ended?
 
What fields upon were they engaging,—
   What prowess showing us in war
       Or its cessation,
When thou, O Death, didst come outraging
   Both one and all, and swept them o'er
       With desolation.
 
Their warriors' unnumbered hosting,
   The pennon, and the battle-flag,
       And bannered splendor,—
The castles with their turrets boasting,
   Their walls and barricades to brag
       And mock surrender,—
 
The cavern's ancient crypt of hiding,
   Or secret passage, vault, or stair,—
       What use affords it?
Since thou upon thy onslaught striding
   Canst send a shaft unerring where
       No buckler wards it!
 
O World that givest and destroyest
   Would that the life which thou hast shown
       Were worth the living!
But here, as good or ill deployest,
   The parting is with gladness known
       Or with misgiving.
 
Thy span is so with griefs encumbered
   With sighing every breeze so steeped,
       With wrongs so clouded,
A desert where no boon is numbered,
   The sweetness and allurement reaped
       And black and shrouded.
 
Thy highway is the road of weeping;
   Thy long farewells are bitterness
       Without a morrow;
Adorn thy ruts and ditches keeping
   The traveller who doth most possess
       Hath most of sorrow.
 
Thy chattels are but had with sighing;
   With sweat of brow alone obtained
       The wage they give;
In myriads thine ills come hieing,
   And once existence they have gained,
       They longest live.
 
And he, the shield and knightly pastor
   Of honest folk, beloved by all
       The unoffending,—
Don Roderic Manrique, Master
   Of Santiago,—Fame shall call
       Him brave unending!
 
Not here behooves to chant his praises
   Or laud his valor to the skies,
       Since none but knows them;
Nor would I crave a word that raises
   His merit higher than the prize
       The world bestows them.
 
O what a comrade comrades found him!
   Unto his henchmen what a lord!
       And what a brother!
What foeman for the foes around him!
   His peer as Master of the Sword
       There was no other!
 
What precious counsel 'mid the knowing!
   What grace amid the courtly bower!
       What prudence rare!
What bounty to the vanquished showing!
   How 'mid the brave in danger's hour
       A lion there!
 
In destiny a new Augustus;
   A Caesar for his victories
       And battle forces;
An Africanus in his justice;
   A Hannibal for energies
       And deep resources;
 
A Trajan in his gracious hour;
   A Titus for his open hand
       And cheer unfailing;
His arm, a Spartan king's in power;
   His voice, a Tully's to command
       The truth's prevailing!
 
In mildness Antoninus Pius;
   A Marc Aurelius in the light
       Of calm attending;
A Hadrian to pacify us;
   A Theodosius in his right
       And high intending;
 
Aurelius Alexander stern
   In discipline and laws of war
       Among his legions;
A Constantine in faith eterne;
   Gamaliel in the love he bore
       His native regions.
 
He left no weighty chests of treasure,
   Nor ever unto wealth attained
       Nor store excelling;
To fight the Moors was all his pleasure
   And thus his fortresses he gained,
       Demesne, and dwelling.
 
Amid the lists where he prevailed
   Fell knights and steeds into his hands
       Through fierce compression,
Whereby he came to be regaled
   With vassals and with feudal lands
       In fair possession.
 
Ask you how in his rank and station
   When first he started his career
       Himself he righted?
Left orphan and in desolation
   His brothers and his henchmen dear
       He held united.
 
And ask you how his course was guided
   When once his gallant deeds were famed
       And war was ended?
His high contracting so provided
   That broader, as his honors claimed,
       His lands extended.
 
And these, the proud exploits narrated
   In chronicles to show his youth
       And martial force,
With triumphs equal he was fated
   To re-affirm in very sooth
       As years did course.
 
Then for the prudence of his ways,
   For merit and in high award
       Of service knightly,
His dignity they came to raise
   Till he was Master of the Sword
       Elected rightly.
 
Finding his father's forts and manors
   By false intruders occupied
       And sore oppressed,
With siege and onslaught, shouts and banners,
   His broad-sword in his hand to guide,
       He re-possessed.
 
And for our rightful king how well
   He bore the brunt of warfare keen
       In siege and action,
Let Portugal's poor monarch tell,
   Or those who in Castile have been
       Among his faction.
 
Then having risked his life, maintaining
   The cause of justice in the fight
       For law appointed,
With years in harness spent sustaining
   The royal crown of him by right
       His lord anointed,
 
With feats so mighty that Hispania
   Can never make account of all
       In number mortal,—
Unto his township of Ocaña
   Came Death at last to strike and call
       Against his portal:
 
 
       Speaketh Death
 
“Good Cavalier,”—he cried,—“divest you
   Of all this hollow world of lies
       And soft devices;
Let your old courage now attest you,
   And show a breast of steel that vies
       In this hard crisis!
 
“And since of life and fortune's prizes
   You ever made so small account
       For sake of honor,
Array your soul in virtue's guises
   To undergo this paramount
       Assault upon her!
 
“For you, are only half its terrors
   And half the battles and the pains
       Your heart perceiveth;
Since here a life devoid of errors
   And glorious for noble pains
       To-day it leaveth;
 
“A life for such as bravely bear it
   And make its fleeting breath sublime
       In right pursuing,
Untainted, as is their's who share it
   And put their pleasure in the grime
       Of their undoing;
 
“The life that is The Everlasting
   Was never yet by aught attained
       Save meed eternal;
And ne'er through soft indulgence casting
   The shadow of its solace stained
       With guilt infernal;
 
“But in the cloister holy brothers
   Besiege it with unceasing prayer
       And hard denial;
And faithful paladins are others
   Who 'gainst the Moors to win it bear
       With wound and trial.
 
“And since, O noble and undaunted,
   Your hands the paynim's blood have shed
       In war and tourney,—
Make ready now to take the vaunted
   High guerdon you have merited
       For this great journey!
 
“Upon this holy trust confiding,
   And in the faith entire and pure
       You e'er commended,
Away,—unto your new abiding,
   Take up the Life that shall endure
       When this is ended!”
 
 
       Respondeth the Grand-Master
 
“Waste we not here the final hours
   This puny life can now afford
       My mortal being;
But let my will in all its powers
   Conformable approach the Lord
       And His decreeing.
 
“Unto my death I yield, contenting
   My soul to put the body by
       In peace and gladness;
The thought of man to live, preventing
   God's loving will that he should die,
       Is only madness.”
 
 
     

The Supplication

 
O Thou who for our weight of sin
   Descended to a place on earth
       And human feature;
Thou who didst join Thy Godhead in
   A being of such lowly worth
       As man Thy creature;
 
Thou who amid Thy dire tormenting
   Didst unresistingly endure
       Such pangs to ease us;
Not for my mean deserts relenting,
   But only on a sinner poor,
       Have mercy, Jesus!
 
 
                   

The Codicil

 
And thus, his hopes so nobly founded,
   His senses clear and unimpaired
       So none could doubt him,—
With spouse and offspring fond surrounded,
   His kinsmen and his servants bared
       And knelt around him,—
 
He gave his soul to Him who gave it,
   (May God in heaven ordain it place
       And share of glory!)
And left our life as balm to save it,
   And dry the tears upon our face!
       His deathless story.
 
                   
Translated by Thomas Walsh
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