 | Zinzendorff, and other poems |  |
THE CONQUERORS OF SPAIN.
“There are still found in South America, some of the first conquerors of the New-World who at the commencement of the sixteenth century, in searching for the rich mines that had been described to them, took a long and circuitous route among the mountains of Peru, and perished by the cold, which at once petrified and preserved them.”
Bomare.
Why choose ye out such dizzy height
Amid yon drear domain,
Your ice-bound cell forever white,
Ye haughty men of Spain?
The Condor on his mighty wing
Doth scale your cloud-wreath'd walls,
But to his scream their caverns ring,
As from the cliff he falls.
Amid yon drear domain,
Your ice-bound cell forever white,
Ye haughty men of Spain?
293
Doth scale your cloud-wreath'd walls,
But to his scream their caverns ring,
As from the cliff he falls.
The poor Peruvian scans with dread
Your fix'd and stony eye,
The timid child averts his head,
And faster hurries by,
They from the fathers of the land
Have heard your withering tale,
Nor spare to mock the tyrant band
Transform'd to statues pale.
Your fix'd and stony eye,
The timid child averts his head,
And faster hurries by,
They from the fathers of the land
Have heard your withering tale,
Nor spare to mock the tyrant band
Transform'd to statues pale.
Ye came to grasp the Indian's gold,
Ye scorn'd his feathery dart,
But Andes rose, that monarch old,
And took his children's part,
And with that strange embalming art
Which ancient Egypt knew,
He threw his frost-chain o'er your heart,
As to his breast ye grew.
Ye scorn'd his feathery dart,
But Andes rose, that monarch old,
And took his children's part,
And with that strange embalming art
Which ancient Egypt knew,
He threw his frost-chain o'er your heart,
As to his breast ye grew.
He chain'd you while strong manhood's tide
Did through your bosoms roll,
Upon your lip the curl of pride,
And avarice in your soul,
Strange slumber stole with mortal pang
Across the frozen plain,
And thunder-blasts your sentence rang,
“Sleep and ne'er wake again.”
Did through your bosoms roll,
Upon your lip the curl of pride,
And avarice in your soul,
Strange slumber stole with mortal pang
Across the frozen plain,
And thunder-blasts your sentence rang,
“Sleep and ne'er wake again.”
294
Uprose the moon, the Queen of night
Danc'd with the Protean tide,
And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight,
And ripening ages died,
Slow centuries in oblivion's flood
Sank like the tossing wave,
But changeless and transfix'd ye stood,
The dead without a grave.
Danc'd with the Protean tide,
And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight,
And ripening ages died,
Slow centuries in oblivion's flood
Sank like the tossing wave,
But changeless and transfix'd ye stood,
The dead without a grave.
The infant wrought its flowery span
On Love's maternal breast,
And whiten'd to a hoary man,
And laid him down to rest.
Race after race, with weary moan
Went to their dreamless sleep,
While ye, upon your feet of stone,
Perpetual penance keep.
On Love's maternal breast,
And whiten'd to a hoary man,
And laid him down to rest.
Race after race, with weary moan
Went to their dreamless sleep,
While ye, upon your feet of stone,
Perpetual penance keep.
How little deem'd ye, when ye hurl'd
Your challenge o'er the main,
And vow'd to teach a new-born world
The vassalage of Spain,
Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain
Shall rive your prison-rock,
To bear upon your brow like Cain,
A mark that all might mock.
Your challenge o'er the main,
And vow'd to teach a new-born world
The vassalage of Spain,
Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain
Shall rive your prison-rock,
To bear upon your brow like Cain,
A mark that all might mock.
But long from high Castilian bowers
Look'd forth the inmates fair,
And gave the tardy midnight hours
To watching and despair,
Oft starting as some light guitar
Its breath of sweetness shed,
Yet lord and lover linger'd far
Till life's brief vision fled.
Look'd forth the inmates fair,
And gave the tardy midnight hours
To watching and despair,
295
Its breath of sweetness shed,
Yet lord and lover linger'd far
Till life's brief vision fled.
Their vaunted tournament is o'er,
Their knightly lance in rest,
Ambition's fever burns no more
Within their conquering breast,
For high between the earth and skies,
Check'd in their venturous path,
A fearful monument they rise,
Of Andes' vengeful wrath.
Their knightly lance in rest,
Ambition's fever burns no more
Within their conquering breast,
For high between the earth and skies,
Check'd in their venturous path,
A fearful monument they rise,
Of Andes' vengeful wrath.
| Zinzendorff, and other poems | |