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 Beside his stall.
I speak not of the Trojan name, Neither its glory nor its shame Has met our eyes; Nor of Rome's great and glorious dead, Though we have heard so oft, and read, Their histories.
Little avails it now to know Of ages passed so long ago, Nor how they rolled; Our theme shall be of yesterday, Which to oblivion sweeps away, Like day's of old.
Where is the King, Don Juan? Where Each royal prince and noble heir Of Aragon? Where are the courtly gallantries? The deeds of love and high emprise, In battle done?
Tourney and joust, that charmed the eye, And scarf, and gorgeous panoply, And nodding plume, What were they but a pageant scene? What but the garlands, gay and green, That deck the tomb?
Where are the high-born dames, and where Their gay attire, and jewelled hair, And odors 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 They loved of yore? Where is the mazy dance of old, The flowing robes, inwrought with gold, The dancers wore?
And he who next the sceptre swayed, Henry, whose royal court displayed Such power and pride; O, in what winning smiles arrayed, The world its various pleasures laid His throne beside!
But O how false and full of guile That world, which wore so soft a smile But to betray! She, that had been his friend before, Now from the fated monarch tore Her charms away.
The countless gifts, the stately walls, The loyal palaces, and halls All filled with gold; Plate with armorial bearings wrought, Chambers with ample treasures fraught Of wealth untold;