Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World :: :: University of Virginia Library

[The night on which the Spaniards retreated from Mexico, having in vain, after the death of Montezuma, endeavoured to preserve their footing in that great golden city of the west, is still called by the degenerated descendants of the first conquerors, the “Noche Triste,” or “the Sorrowful Night.” It was an awful shipwreck of Cortes' hopes, and one which the wonderful resources of his mind, his constancy, and his indomitable genius, could alone have retrieved. The day of vengeance came at last. What availed crystal blade against steel hauberk, or lasso against Spanish spear.

It was a day of terrible retribution—of “garments rolled in blood”—of confused sound of the battle, and the empire of Mexico fell like a Colossus—never to rise again.]

By the blazing light, of the watchfires bright, the weary veterans slept,
And the umber'd gleam, of their ruddy beam, lit the men who the night-watch kept.

Round the blaze they drew, that weary crew, for they'd fought the live-long day,
And strove against sling of the Indian king, and the might of his dark array.

For the fire and sword of the Spanish lord, had given much cause for grief,
From many a land the flaming brand had summoned the distant chief.

'Bove the pyramid whose peak is hid, gloomed dark the midnight sky,
No silver light of the stars once bright, shone through the clouds on high.

Never again on that idol fane shall blaze the idol's fire,
But the cross instead shall raise its head, as high as fair Seville's spire.

On that fatal morn, ere came the dawn, Montezuma a slave had died,
And save that chief, that died of grief, no friend had Spain beside.

And day by day he pined away, but the demon left him not,
No heart had borne the cruel scorn, of the chiefs at his changed lot.

Unshrived by monk to the grave he sunk, no son knelt his couch beside,
Striving to read the Christian creed, the broken-hearted died.

And now on his throne, in pride alone, fierce Guatamozin mounts,
Till he drives from the land the wounded band, the weary hours he counts.

Nor happy Spain shall they see again, for the wide Atlantic's coast,
And the wild storm wave, the rocks that lave, is less fierce than the Aztec host.

“Let none of mine like the infant whine,” cries Cortes to his men,
“We risked our life, when one to five, and we'll venture it again.

“Let each as he may forget the fray, and the carking pangs of sorrow,
Nerve each iron heart for a warrior's part, we'll cast the die to-morrow.

“Let despair's black cloud, no gallant shroud, and thoughts of the true friends slain,
Let no fear of ours, in the darkest hours, be ever known in Spain.

“Each soldier round must the gold be bound, let each to his armour look,
Botel for retreat, says the hour is meet, who reads the stars like a book.

“Let each trooper shine, with the chains entwine, each gem shall lend its ray,
Their varied light, as they glimmer bright, will guide us on our way.

“Let each heart be stout, for the Indian rout cannot hear the felted heel,
Let no muttered prayer pierce the silent air, no war-cry of Castille.

“Take, every man, St. James for Spain, as the watch-word of the night,
We must onward far, ere the morning star tells of the coming light;

“Till on the height, where the distant might of the city lies below,
We rest at last, when the danger's past, ere comes the morning's glow.”

In the still calm night, ere shone the light, through the sleeping city's waste,
The serried host, with no trumpet's boast, o'er the narrow causeway haste.

So calm and clear, of the banner'd spear, the wind lifts not a fold,
They seem like a train of the ghosts of the slain, as they leave the leagured hold.

Behind still nigh, 'gainst the pale blue sky, through the dark thin veil of gloom,
Rises the wall of the palace hall, where so many found a tomb.

And swift as they march o'er the causeway's arch, bold Cortes leads the brave,
He bends his ear, each sound to hear, he'll save if man can save.

All still around as in sleep profound the silent city lay,
And still more fleet, through the last long street they march, as comes the day.

'Tis like nature's hush, ere the lightning's rush in a lurid summer's hour,
Ere the thunder loud, bursts through the cloud, with all the earthquake's power.

Though night may hide, on the terrace wide, there gazes many an eye,
That trumpet's clang, through the air that rang, was a signal from on high.

At one blast of the shell, with its mournful swell, blazes the vault of night,
Like the volcan's flame, the brightness came, from a thousand springs of light.

And now with a crash, like the waves that dash on some wild Pacific shore,
The city seems to awake from dreams, and to shout with a monster's roar.

From the war-god's fane comes that echo again, of the far-heard serpent drum,
From the city borne, the sound of the horn o'er the darkened waters come.

And the dark crowds pour, with a sullen roar, as if night had given them birth,
Their robes of white, to the Spaniards' sight, seem to shroud no forms of earth.

A thousand canoes o'er the waters flew, though the darkness hid their array,
But still the rear, with no thoughts of fear, kept the millions all at bay.

Though the arrows that flew, still thicker grew, and fiercer plied the axe,
And the war storm sped, with a thunder tread, when they charged us at our backs.

“Still we hewed a lane, paved with the slain, the saints fight us beside,
On a charger white, in the heavens height, we saw St. Jago ride.”

No cry of fear reached the soldier's ear, from Cortes' Indian maid,
In no woman's weed, on a barbed steed, in a trooper's mail arrayed.

Now the bridge is past, 'tis crossed at last, and they tarry awhile in fear,
And there's hope for life, in this lull of strife, for the last canal is near.

The weak beams fail—great God! that wail was the shout of dire despair!
In a crowded mass they strove to pass, but a chasm gapeth there.

Swift the horse fled past, with no look back cast, on their comrades left to die,
And the savage shout still ringeth out, above that fearful cry.

And still around, from the trampled ground, the Aztecs seem to rise,
Through the horrid din they drag within the foe to the sacrifice.

And the waters are dark with the painted bark, and the wretch with the cloven crown,
But the ingot chest presses on his breast, and the red gold drags him down.

Rich robes, whose dyes with the rainbow vies, were stained with the waves' deep red,
And the waters are strewn with the breastplates hewn, and the spoils of the host that fled.

And gems that a king might long to win sink on the drowned dead,
And the waters' gloom, like a gorgeous tomb, grows dark above his head.

Like a vulture flew the swift canoe to bear away the dying;
Through the fire-lit air comes the shriek and prayer to the cowards that were flying.

And the barbed reed stings the Spanish steed, and pierces brain and marrow;
Through plated mail, through bright steel scale, drives fast the Indian arrow.

From their temple's hall, to their gods they call, to aid them in the fray;
On the mangled slain, on the missiles' rain, beams forth the golden day;

And its rays shone then on drowning men, and many a dying face,
On gashed form, with limbs still warm, that strewed the ghastly place;

And the breeze of day, as sweet as May, in the spring-time of the year,
Fanned the pale cheek of the soldier weak, who hails it with a cheer.

On that morning gale came the mourners' wail, and the sound of splashing oars;
On the calm cool air came shriek and prayer, though still the battle roars.

Still pealed the yell as the war-club fell, 'mid the cries of the day of doom;
The women groan as they mourn alone in horror's deepest gloom.

Then through the din rode Cortes in, though his horse's housings o'er,
And his armour gleams through the dark red streams that onward fiercer pour.

'Twas armour stout that could then keep out the sharp stone of the sling,
That could ward the dart that to the heart flew on the restless wing.

As high as your breast swam the floating chest, and the robes that shone with gold,
And gems and ore that rude hands tore from the Indian monarch's hold;

And feathers bright as the ruby's light pillowed the slain man's head,
And royal robes o'er-bedabbled with gore were wrapped round the dead.

Still the causeway o'er the cannons pour their flames that onward flew;
It breaks the rank and it rends the plank of the warriors' black canoe.

In the morning light, far as scans the sight, o'er the darkly crowded dyke,
The iron rain still sweeps the plain, still charge they with the pike.

The “sun's own child,” in frenzy wild, leaps the wave at a single bound,
Further than deer, though winged by fear, e'er leapt from sharp-fanged hound.

Though the human wave a war-shout gave, as they rushed on the broken mass,
Like a man who breasts the foam-wave's crests, bold Cortes holds the pass.

Then slowly back on the bloody track, o'er the cause-way's wide stones red,
To palace and hall of their capital they fly to mourn their dead.

From the village height, ere the sun set bright, Cortes beholds his band;
With no trumpet's note, no banners float, they reach the friendly land.

All travel-worn, with proud crest torn, with no gallant army's pride,
With no dancing plume to hide their gloom,—blood dripped from their wounded side.

The salt ooze drained from their armour, stained with the blood of friend and foe;
With bowed head they mourn the dead,—weary they march, and slow.

But many a face that once had place, Cortes beholds not there:
“Where do they ride I fought beside? Where are the absent? Where?”

In his robe's thick fold, that warrior bold, whose heart they deemed of stone,
Hid his bended head as he heard their tread: he mourneth there alone.

Through his blood-stained hand, on the hot dry sand, the warm tears silent fall,
For the dead in vain, o'er the wide-spread plain, sounds the trumpet's shrill recal.

With the mournful plaint of that echo faint, that up to heaven goes,
On the sighing gale came back the wail, blent with the shout of foes.