Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/65

Thou think'st it strange! Dost thou the names confound
Of Fortune with felicity as bound?
Like the poor idiots, who so foolish gaze
On the vain gifts and joys which she displays,
So cunning to exchange for real good.
O cheat of human wisdom! say withstood,
What does she promise, but what beings born
To our high destiny should hold in scorn?
In reason's balance her best offers weigh,
And see what worthless lightness they betray.

 There are who, burning in the track of fame,
Wear themselves ruthless for a sounding name.
Buy it with blood, and fire, and ruin wide;
And if with horrid arm is death descried,
Waving his pennon as from some high tower,
Their hearts swell proud, and trampling fierce they scour
The field o'er brothers' bodies as of foes!
Then sing a triumph, while in secret flows
The tear they shed as from an anguish'd heart.

 Less lofty, but more cunning on his part,
Another sighs for ill-secure command:
With flatteries solicitously plann'd,
Follows the air of favour, and his pride

In adulation vile he serves to hide,