Volume 5 — From Chambers's Journal. Charles V. at the Convent of Yuste.

Shade and sunshine play alternate on the convent's massy walls; In the cloister's dim seclusion soft the stealthy footstep falls; In the quiet garden-alleys underneath the citron's shade, Pace the monks with open missals, downcast eyes, and silent tread. Birds are singing, bees are humming, trees are whispering, while through all Steals the silver tinkling, tinkling of the distant fountain fall. Far away, the wild Sierras stretch their ridges dim and high, Carving weird and warlike phantoms in the blue and dazzling sky; Rising still in savage grandeur, till they reach the bounding main; Mute protectors of their country, bulwarks of chivalrous Spain. Who comes hither, slowly sauntering, pausing oft awhile to rest; Arms across so calmly folded, head declining on his breast? More than common spirit lurketh in the bright and clear blue eye; More than common toil and travail in the brows' deep furrows lie. Weight of years and weight of trouble somewhat bow the haughty form, But the haughty heart within it still is beating quick and warm; Iron heart that knew no bending, when the storm was fierce and loud, Soared above the thunder's roaring, dared the lightning, braved the cloud. Stalwart heart that still was foremost in the serried ranks of war; Triumphed o'er the Gallic legions, foiled the Moslem's scimitar. Hardy Germans; proud Burgundians; trusty Flemings, true as steel; Mountaineers of wild Galicia, cavaliers of Old Castile; Half the empire of the Old World; half the treasures of the New— Mexico's gold-flowing rivers, silver mines of rich Peru; Wheresoe'er the sun ariseth, throwing o'er the hills his beams; Wheresoe'er his dying radiance lingers on the lakes and streams; Far as human foot can wander, far as human eye can scan, Bowed the nations, poured the treasures, marched the legions for one man. Yet he standeth there serenely underneath the chestnut bough, And the gentle air of summer playeth lightly on his brow. Gone the sceptre of the monarch, gone the priceless pearl and gem; Gone the purple robe of splendor, gone the regal diadem. March of armies, fall of kingdoms fate of war he little heeds, Kneeling on the chapel pavement with his missal and his beads, Listening to the simple brethren, chanting loud their matin hymn, Or the holy Ave Mary, wafted through the twilight dim. He hath conned life's sternest lessons he hath learned them long and well, And the deep experience knoweth which their silent teachings tell. Not the wildest hold of empire can the mind's expansion fill; Vain the grasp of worldly power, worldly riches vainer still. High o'er all that earth can offer, heaven's allurements beckon on, And the crown that never fadeth by the victor shall be won.