University of Virginia Library

XXVIII.

Why does the Spaniard star?—Before him lies
The boy—his fav'rite page—the sacrifice
To his ambition—for his life and fame,
And here, till now, forgotten—to his shame!
More pale and tender made by death, his cheek
Now wore a spirit's whiteness—while a streak
Fine and quite pure, scarce trickling from the wound
Proclaim'd the death, yet gentle, that he found
No bruise, nor savage blow, from rugged knife,
Had taught the parting pangs of death, to life,
But tender-seeming, as himself, the blow
Was such, as might not well have come from foe
And what does Cortes, at the sight
Of that devoted martyr boy—
Can aught of triumph give delight,
In presence of that deep alloy?
Such high devotedness and truth,
Might sure have won a better lot;
Such firmness in unshaken youth,
And courage, love, and all forgot?
And ever thus, while time shall be,
Ambition, blinded by the sun,
Throughout its flight, can never see,
Aught but the orb it looks upon!
He wrung his hands in anguish—clasp'd his brow,
And to his face, came back the swarthy glow,
A native there—revenge, and thirst of blood,
And all the fearful demon of his mood—
Yet, he knelt down, beside the delicate form,
That seem'd a lily, broken by the storm,
Along with stronger ruins; and with hand
Of fond enquiry, sought to gather much
Of hope and comfort from the passionate touch,
Where the nerves trembled, free from all command.
And for a moment thought he, life was there,
And laugh'd in his fierce joy—but cold despair,
Follow'd the first expression of delight,
As moons are swallow'd up, by clouds, at night!
The savage soldier wept, or seem'd to weep,
For once, with sudden, and impetuous sweep,
As if disdaining aught of sympathy,
He brush'd his rough hand o'er his wintry eye:
But yet, reluctant to depart, he stood
Awhile, beside the form, in musing mood,
Then hastily displacing the steel hand
That held the boy's cap, underneath his hand,
He tore the cap aside—long, streaming hair,
Reveal'd, too well, the dead girl sleeping there
In peace, at last—in peace, too lately known,
And only found, and felt, when ever gone.