Vida descansada

Oh, what a blissful lot, from anguish free,
Is his, who, flying from the world's mad fray,
The hidden path descries
O'er which the few true wise
Trod in their placid wont from day to day !
Fell Envy's tooth ne'er rends the tranquil breast
For palaces, or courts where dwell the grand,
Nor for the lofty roof,
Nor for the gilded woof,
Nor jasper wrought by Moor of cunning hand.
No care has he that Fame with herald's voice
Shall sound his praises for a future race,
Nor simulation be his choice,
Nor in soft flatteries rejoice,
But in such false renown would find disgrace.
When signaled out by Glory's empty breath,
How shall it profit me, or bring content,
If to enjoy its breeze
I've sacrificed my ease,
And all my days in toil and trouble spent?

Oh, hills with verdure clad ! oh, fount ! oh, stream !
A haven safe from strife forever passed !
My bark from rock and shoal
Flies to thy sheltering goal,
A refuge from the fury of the blast.
A joyous day of sunlight, clear and pure,
A slumber sound, unbroken and serene,
Fain would I own ; no frown
Should please, nor brow nor gown
By blood beflecked, by poverty made mean.
I would that birds, when first Aurora glows,
Should wake me with their untaught, cheery lays;
And not the grievous cares
That one forever wears
Who in another's service spends his days.
I fain would sip the sweets that Heaven has sent
And dwell alone, unruffled in repose,
In solitary glee,
From jealous loving free,
Remote from hope, from hatred, friends or foes.
An orchard have I planted with these hands
Upon a mountain's green and terraced slope,
And when soft spring is here
Ripe fruits and flowers appear,
A symbol true of love and faith and hope.

And like a miser would increase his store,
To see its rippling wavelets mighty grow,
From off yon angry height
A fountain, clear as light,
In headlong hurry hastes the river's flow.
With placid mien and pace, in deep content,
Amidst the groves its tortuous path it winds,
Draping its moorland way
With verdure fresh and gay,
In flowery garb its sedgey margin binds.
A thousand savors, wafted on the air
By gentle breezes, fan the orchard's store,
With tender echoing sigh
The zephyrs murmuring die,
Nor crown nor jewelled gauds can tempt me more.
Let those guard well their goodly treasured hoards
Whose faith doth lie in silver or in gold ;
I would not hear their cry
When evil days draw nigh,
When winds and waves their fierce contentions hold;
When day is turned to night, with tattered sails
Buffets the storm their bark, by tempest tossed,
With fierce, ill-omened sounds
The welkin drear resounds,
The sea grows rich on wealth which they have lost.

To me an humble board and scanty fare
My kingdom are, far off from cares I sleep;
The wine-cup's golden band
Wrought by a master-hand,
Be his who dreadeth not the angered deep.
And while penurious thirst still burns to gain,
With tortured mind by myriad cares oppressed,
Consumed in greedy pains,
Insatiate Avarice-chains,
I lie 'neath woodland shades with soul at rest.
With ivy leaves my home is bowered o'er,
Crowned with unfading laurel's brightest bay,
With tender chord I sing,
And touch the tuneful string,
And chant to tranquil lute a peaceful lay.

THE
PROPHECY OF THE TAGUS*

What time King Rodrick loved and joyed
With beauteous Cava, by the Tagus' side,
In solitude, uncloyed ;
The river opened wide
Its marshy throat and fateful warning sighed.
Oh, hour ill-omened for thy soul,
Oh, wicked King ! for now the sounds I hear
Of arms, that clash and roll,
While flame-girt Mars, with spear
Menaces fearful woe to all most dear.
Alas! thy glory' 11 change to shame,
Thy loves and kisses turn to lament sore !
And this most beauteous dame
That e'er the sun shone o'er
Must be a curse the Goths shall aye deplore !

• By Spanish critics this ode is considered as perfect in all its parts. The
  imagery is the same as that employed by Camoens at a later date ; the River
  Tagus addresses King Roderic as the Spirit of the Cape does the Portuguese
  adventurers.

IQ

'Tis sacrilegious war and woes,
Fell desolation, murder, tears and brand,
Thy arms do now enclose,
And many a sorrow glows
For thee and all the vassals of thy land ;
For those who till the fertile fields
Of Constantine, and those where Ebro's shore
Rich harvest yields
Of golden store ;
And hapless Lusitania bathe in gore.
E'en now from Cadiz news of shame
Recalls the injured Count to vengeance dire ;
He recks not future fame.
The Moorish hosts draw nigher,
They tarry not to wreak their burning ire.
List how the heavens re-echo loud
With Paynim shout, with trumpet clang and blare !
From Afric comes a crowd
Of Moors, bloodthirsty, proud,
Who wave Mahomet's standard to the air.
The cruel Arab wields his lance,
The welkin rings beneath their battle gage ;
Full eager for Death's dance
The neighing chargers prance,
And countless squadrons glut their deadly rage.

2o POEMS FROM THE SPANISH

The soil grows black beneath their tread ;
The billowing main is wholly lost to sight
Beneath their canvass spread;
The dust above their head
Obscures the sun, and turns the day to night.
Alas, how soon they'll reach the shore
Those massive ships that hasten to their prey !
With many a stalwart rower
That bends above the oar,
The foaming deep sheds fire beneath their way.
Eolus wafts a favoring breeze
Abaft the beam to speed them on their road ;
Across the narrow seas
Old Neptune grants them ease,
And with his trident stills his dread abode.
Alas ! do Cava's deadly charms
Still hold thee captive-bound upon her lap?
Dost thou not hear th' alarms
That summon thee to arms?
Dost thou not see th' Herculean straits' mishap?
Arouse ! Ope wide thine eyes ! Bestir !
Quick cross the snowy mountain, seize the plain !
Spare not the bloody spur,
Give to thy steed full rein,
And throw with thundering hand thy spear insane !

Oh, what awaits thee of travail !
Alas, what sweat shall pour from off thy brow,
When clad in heavy mail
Thy foes shall fierce assail,
On foot, on horse — thy crown shall overthrow !
Oh, godlike Betis, flowing free
Bestained with Spanish and with strangers' blood,
Bear to the ravening sea
A mingled company
Of broken helms and nobles on thy flood !
And furious Mars, with rage accurst,
Scatters five firebrands, incites his trains,
For carnage deep-athirst ;
The sixth, alas ! ordains
My country dear to wear barbarian chains !