Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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| VIII. | No. VIII.
THE PROCESSION OF THE DEAD. |
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 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
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No. VIII. THE PROCESSION OF THE DEAD.
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[“When an Inca died,” says Prescott, “or, as the Peruvians expressed it, ‘was called home to the mansions of his father, the sun,’ his body was embalmed, and placed with those of his ancestors in the great temple of the sun at Cuzco: there, clad in their royal robes, they sat in chairs of gold, the queens on one side and the kings on the other; their heads bent downwards, and their hands crossed on their bosoms. Several of these royal mummies, hidden by the Peruvians at the conquest, were found by a Spanish corregidor: they were perfect as life, without so much as a hair or an eyebrow wanting. As they were carried through the streets of Lima, decently covered with a mantle, the Indians threw themselves on their knees in sign of reverence, with many tears and groans, and were still more touched when they beheld some of the Spaniards doffing their hats in token of respect to departed royalty.”]
What chiefs are those in Lima's streets, on Spanish shoulders borne,
Such jewelled robes and costly plumes by the Incas once were worn,
There's no low chant of death
To show that a crowned conqueror has yielded up his breath.
Such jewelled robes and costly plumes by the Incas once were worn,
There's no low chant of death
To show that a crowned conqueror has yielded up his breath.
Such scarlet fringe was the diadem that decked the royal head,
But, save in the midnight dream, came never back the dead.
There's trampling of feet,
But no measured beat of muffled drum, no chanting in the street.
But, save in the midnight dream, came never back the dead.
There's trampling of feet,
But no measured beat of muffled drum, no chanting in the street.
Long since, the rainbow banner faded before the storm,
Not with the sun of other days grows now the cold earth warm;
The god so good, so mild,
Looks down with a frown of anger on his once favoured child.
Not with the sun of other days grows now the cold earth warm;
The god so good, so mild,
Looks down with a frown of anger on his once favoured child.
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And many a chief long passed away, whose splendour once was bright,
Is feasting now with the spirit kings in the realms of purer light;
There's gone to a better clime
Many a bright-plumed emperor who ruled of olden time.
Is feasting now with the spirit kings in the realms of purer light;
There's gone to a better clime
Many a bright-plumed emperor who ruled of olden time.
Know you great Cuzco's temple, where, with unceasing ray,
Blazed forth in a flood of ceaseless light, the orb of the god of day,
And the gem-encrusted wall
Shone with a light as rich, as fair, as the Inca's palace hall.
Blazed forth in a flood of ceaseless light, the orb of the god of day,
And the gem-encrusted wall
Shone with a light as rich, as fair, as the Inca's palace hall.
Where in the East,—Jesus, Great God 'mid the herald clouds appears—
Then shone with a matchless radiancy the sun's bright, golden tears;
Alas! that the shining ore
Should have lured the cruel Spaniards to this unhappy shore.
Then shone with a matchless radiancy the sun's bright, golden tears;
Alas! that the shining ore
Should have lured the cruel Spaniards to this unhappy shore.
And the rainbow's arch that spanned the wall, bright with the coloured stone,
With a rich and varied brilliancy, of a thousand colours shone,
On the golden cornice bright,
They glared, though clouds might veil the day, those triple showers of light.
With a rich and varied brilliancy, of a thousand colours shone,
On the golden cornice bright,
They glared, though clouds might veil the day, those triple showers of light.
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And light blazed back on lustrous light, while with a softer gleam
The moon, embossed in silver, shone with her pallid beam;
And when arose the dawn,
The priests hailed with a gladsome shout the coming of the morn.
The moon, embossed in silver, shone with her pallid beam;
And when arose the dawn,
The priests hailed with a gladsome shout the coming of the morn.
And as the morning incense curled up into the air,
I've seen the holy Incas seated like monarchs there;
The priest through the temple crept,
As if his low, deep-chanted hymn could rouse the kings who slept.
I've seen the holy Incas seated like monarchs there;
The priest through the temple crept,
As if his low, deep-chanted hymn could rouse the kings who slept.
Like some great silent senate, sat the bright crowned dead;
Dark was their cheek, as it was in life, and bowed was their head;
Still calm, as if alone,
Sat Peru's once mighty monarchs, each on his golden throne.
Dark was their cheek, as it was in life, and bowed was their head;
Still calm, as if alone,
Sat Peru's once mighty monarchs, each on his golden throne.
And the wind that rustled the mantle's fold, like the voice of one unseen,
On the silence of a mournful thought that stealeth in between,
Like music from without,
From Cuzco's gardens came the gushing fountain's laughing shout.
On the silence of a mournful thought that stealeth in between,
Like music from without,
From Cuzco's gardens came the gushing fountain's laughing shout.
You might have deemed that life was there ruled over by the mind,
When the long green plume on each corpse-king's head was shaken by the wind;
Yes, those are the by-gone Incas, they bear them to their rest,
Beneath the earth, in a small dark cave of the city of the West;
Such is the common doom,
Though for awhile the corpse embalmed be saved from the tomb.
When the long green plume on each corpse-king's head was shaken by the wind;
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Beneath the earth, in a small dark cave of the city of the West;
Such is the common doom,
Though for awhile the corpse embalmed be saved from the tomb.
Yon is the great Yupanqui, the bright sun's greatest child,
Who bore the Rainbow banner far into Chili's wild;
O'er the Ande's peaks he swept,
Like a panther on his jungle prey upon the foe he leapt.
Who bore the Rainbow banner far into Chili's wild;
O'er the Ande's peaks he swept,
Like a panther on his jungle prey upon the foe he leapt.
Snowy with age is the monarch's hair, to my eye it seemeth now
As if the weight of some heavy care still brooded on his brow,
And seated by his side
Is an Inca, whose dark raven hair tells still of youth and pride.
As if the weight of some heavy care still brooded on his brow,
And seated by his side
Is an Inca, whose dark raven hair tells still of youth and pride.
And there is his sire Huyana, who conquered Quito's king,
Who made the name of great Peru o'er the distant mountains ring,
Ere proud and cruel Spain
With the lust of gold and the thirst for blood ravaged the fertile plain.
Who made the name of great Peru o'er the distant mountains ring,
Ere proud and cruel Spain
With the lust of gold and the thirst for blood ravaged the fertile plain.
How sunken now their glory, when son and father meet,
Gazed at by the passing stranger, and borne through Lima's street
To the measured tread of multitudes,
To their resting-place, the lonely grave, pass on the royal dead.
Gazed at by the passing stranger, and borne through Lima's street
To the measured tread of multitudes,
To their resting-place, the lonely grave, pass on the royal dead.
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Not at the head of armies, as once in the days of old,
In a gorgeous litter, flaming with costly gems and gold,
Upon the flying foes,
Like the sun in its fairest splendour, the monarch's litter goes.
In a gorgeous litter, flaming with costly gems and gold,
Upon the flying foes,
Like the sun in its fairest splendour, the monarch's litter goes.
With sighs and bitter weeping, and reverential sign,
The Indians greet, for the last sad time, those hallowed forms divine;
And as the bearers nearer drew
Themselves, like prostrate worshippers, before the dead they threw.
The Indians greet, for the last sad time, those hallowed forms divine;
And as the bearers nearer drew
Themselves, like prostrate worshippers, before the dead they threw.
Their hard hearts touched with pity, the Spaniards bow the head,
As on their way to their resting-place, pass by the royal dead;
The setting sun above,
Smiled on the sad procession with the last fond smile of love.
As on their way to their resting-place, pass by the royal dead;
The setting sun above,
Smiled on the sad procession with the last fond smile of love.
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |