Poems (Ford)/Burial of Isabella of Castile
BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE.
A son of mighty anguish shakes
The grieving nation's breast,
As, bowed in bitter woe, she mourns
Her noblest heart at rest;
Well may she weep—her tearful eyes
Can ne'er behold again
The guardian genius of her homes,
The morning-star of Spain.
The grieving nation's breast,
As, bowed in bitter woe, she mourns
Her noblest heart at rest;
Well may she weep—her tearful eyes
Can ne'er behold again
The guardian genius of her homes,
The morning-star of Spain.
A cloud has fallen on Castile,
Her high hopes have gone down,
For Death has bowed the noblest head
That ever wore a crown;
In lordly hall and lowly hut
Grief's heart-wrung fountains flow,
And over all the land is heard
One long, deep wail of woe.
Her high hopes have gone down,
For Death has bowed the noblest head
That ever wore a crown;
In lordly hall and lowly hut
Grief's heart-wrung fountains flow,
And over all the land is heard
One long, deep wail of woe.
Stilled is the high, unselfish heart,
The great and gifted mind
That with a woman's gentleness
A hero's power combined;
Stern warriors bow their heads in grief,
For oft that still, slight form
With hope and courage nerved their hearts
Amid the battle's storm.
The great and gifted mind
That with a woman's gentleness
A hero's power combined;
Stern warriors bow their heads in grief,
For oft that still, slight form
With hope and courage nerved their hearts
Amid the battle's storm.
Cold is the open, generous hand
Of her who freely gave
Her jewels rare to trace a path
Across the trackless wave,—
She in whose name the flag of Spain
Beside the cross unfurled
Its silken folds—the first to wave
O'er the new western world.
Of her who freely gave
Her jewels rare to trace a path
Across the trackless wave,—
She in whose name the flag of Spain
Beside the cross unfurled
Its silken folds—the first to wave
O'er the new western world.
No glittering pomp of royal state,
No proud and vain display,
Accompanies that noble form
To its cold house of clay,
For she whose grandly regal soul
Has to its Maker fled,
Was self-denying in her life,
And still would be though dead.
No proud and vain display,
Accompanies that noble form
To its cold house of clay,
For she whose grandly regal soul
Has to its Maker fled,
Was self-denying in her life,
And still would be though dead.
As slow the sad procession goes
In silence through the land,
The poor pour forth their prayers and tears
For her whose kindly hand
Was ever open in their need;
For she in life had been
To Spain a guardian-spirit bright,
A mother and a queen.
In silence through the land,
The poor pour forth their prayers and tears
For her whose kindly hand
Was ever open in their need;
For she in life had been
To Spain a guardian-spirit bright,
A mother and a queen.
O'er Andalusia's fair green vales
The tempest's black wings sweep,
And wildly beat on her who lies
In death's cold, dreamless sleep;
The mountain-torrents, thundering down,
Go seething o'er the plain,
Where the mad waters hissing roll
Around that funeral train.
The tempest's black wings sweep,
And wildly beat on her who lies
In death's cold, dreamless sleep;
The mountain-torrents, thundering down,
Go seething o'er the plain,
Where the mad waters hissing roll
Around that funeral train.
No sunbeam cheers their path by day,
No star by night appears,—
It seems that Nature's saddened eyes
Are blinded by her tears,
For over all the land is flung
A pall of darkest gloom,
While she who was its life and light
Is carried to the tomb.
No star by night appears,—
It seems that Nature's saddened eyes
Are blinded by her tears,
For over all the land is flung
A pall of darkest gloom,
While she who was its life and light
Is carried to the tomb.
At last Alhambra's crimson towers
'Gainst the gray sky are seen;
Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves,
Granada sits a queen,
And she whose fortitude and faith,
Whose hope and courage high
Regained it from the Moslem foe,
Comes in its dust to lie.
'Gainst the gray sky are seen;
Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves,
Granada sits a queen,
And she whose fortitude and faith,
Whose hope and courage high
Regained it from the Moslem foe,
Comes in its dust to lie.
The dark-plumed cavaliers move on
With solemn pace and slow,
And as through the old Moorish gates
All mournfully they go,
They think of how they entered them
In triumph years before;
Alas! that she they followed then
Should lead them nevermore!
With solemn pace and slow,
And as through the old Moorish gates
All mournfully they go,
They think of how they entered them
In triumph years before;
Alas! that she they followed then
Should lead them nevermore!
High o'er the ancient Moslem towers
The gleaming cross is seen;
Sadly the marble halls beneath
Receive their crownless Queen;
The solemn requiem is sung,
And in the cloister's shade,
With incense, prayer and taper's gleam,
The royal dust is laid.
The gleaming cross is seen;
Sadly the marble halls beneath
Receive their crownless Queen;
The solemn requiem is sung,
And in the cloister's shade,
With incense, prayer and taper's gleam,
The royal dust is laid.
Religion mourns her brightest gem,
Her shield, forever gone;
Spain weeps her strength, her star of hope,
Her purest spirit flown;
All Christendom laments for her
Now to the grave consigned,
Who gave her every thought and deed
To God and to her kind.
Her shield, forever gone;
Spain weeps her strength, her star of hope,
Her purest spirit flown;
All Christendom laments for her
Now to the grave consigned,
Who gave her every thought and deed
To God and to her kind.
Cold are the glittering tears that fall
For perishing renown,
Save when the good as well as great
Unto the dust go down;
And 'midst the crowned and sceptred dead
The eye will seek in vain
One loved so well, so truly mourned,
As Isabel of Spain.
For perishing renown,
Save when the good as well as great
Unto the dust go down;
And 'midst the crowned and sceptred dead
The eye will seek in vain
One loved so well, so truly mourned,
As Isabel of Spain.