 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XVII.
They've bound a monarch on the flame,The iron, red-hot ribs are placed
Beneath his form, whom crime, nor shame,
Nor human failing e'er debased.
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A demon's fury in his eye,
While calmness, on the monarch's brow,
Bespeaks a fearful apathy.
“A captive, and a nation's king!
If thou wouldst plume a freer wing,
Go, bid thy followers quickly bring,
The splendors of thy favour'd land,
Without delay, with lavish hand—
The gold, the wealth that decks your halls,
The solid silver of your walls,
At once pour forth to greet our eyes,
Or, thou shalt fall the sacrifice,
For, that to idol gods thy knee,
Is bent in low idolatry,
And not to him by whose command,
We come to purify your land!”
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |