University of Virginia Library

XIII.

The boy is at the Spaniard's side,
But all that warrior sees, is he,
Who, firm amid the shrinking tide,
Would still be, as he has been—free!
“Curse on these slaves!—'twere shame to stain
My scymitar in such lowly blood,
But that my glutless soul can drain,
At every happy stroke, a flood!”
Thus from the savage soldier, fell
The grimly mutter'd, sentence-knell—
Not his to strike ignoble foe,
Till thousands, felt the single blow.
“Fall back and give them room to fly,
Tho' there are still enough to die—
And ye may keep your hands in play,
Till ye have hewn a wider way;
Then hem these lowly wretches in,
For me, there's braver spoil to win.”
And with couch'd lance and giant spring,
He battles with the Indian king,
One effort more, whose followers make,
The closing ranks of Spain, to break,
One blow for liberty and life,
And all is o'er, and hush'd the strife!
The king is on the field, his foe,
Above him, with descending blow;
Before the hapless monarch's eyes,
Swim round the crowd, and reel the skies,
But not with fate, like this, he dies!
The grim-brow'd victor, to its sheath,
Return'd the blood-dy'd steel of death—
Paus'd for a moment, ere he bade
His followers stay the active blade,
Then turn'd his eyes afar, where lay
The city walls, his destin'd prey—
Leap'd on his steed, and led the way.