 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXI.
He died—what boots it how, to name,But, with the Spaniard, rests the shame—
And if, as distant tales have said,
The martyr on his fiery bed,
Spoke forth a fearful prophecy,
Of fate, unto his enemy—
Then, do I ween, the curse was sooth,
Since after-time, hath prov'd its truth,
And age on age hath pass'd away,
And memory of the fatal fray,
Itself grown dark, and yet the bale
Of that deep prophecy and tale,
Hangs o'er the race, the name, the land,
Of that fierce, base and murderous band,
29
The fearful doom, and rise, and wake!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |