 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXXIII.
She died, a martyr to the love,Descended from, return'd above;
Untainted in her purer form,
That, like the moonbeam in the storm,
Tho' swallow'd up, by clouds of ill,
Was a rich, precious moonbeam still!
Oh, never more
Shall blight of sorrow fall upon that heart—
Nor, tear thro' that repressed eye-lid start,
Nor heart's affection from its birth-place part—
For all is o'er
Of trial and long suffering, and the pain,
That, worse than all, hangs on the o'erburthen'd brain,
Too much dependant on the spirit's choice,
To utter forth a voice!
A voice of reason, still to love, a foe,
Too sternly dashing out, with sights of wo,
And tones of truth,
The picture lines of youth!
She died for him she loved—her greatest pride,
That, as for him she liv'd, for him she died!
Make her young grave,
Sweet fancies, where the pleasant branches lave,
Their drooping tassels in some murmuring wave.
And ye, incredulous! believe not, faith,
Avail'd not, nor was valu'd by the breast,
Whose spirit thus it bless'd—
No!—he she perish'd for—tho' high-nurst fame
Perch'd with an eaglet's pinion on his name–
And sunny Spain
Valued his worth, and with his honours gave,
Neglect and shame,
The last days of Cortes, may be given in Robertson's own words:—“Disgusted with all success to which he had not been accustomed, and weary of comending with adversaries to whom he considered it as a disgrace to be opposed, he once more (A. D. 1510 sought redress in his native country. But his reception there was very different from that which gratitude, and even decency, ought to have secured for him. The merit of his ancient exploits, was already, in a great measure, forgotten, or eclipsed by the fame of recent and more valuable conquest in another quarter of America. No service of moment was now expected from a man of declining years, and who began to be unfortunate. The Emperor behaved to him with cold civility; his ministers treated him, sometimes with neglect, sometimes with insolence. His grievances received no redress; his claims were urged without effect; and after several years spent in fruitless application to ministers and judges, an occupation the most irksome and mortifying to a man of high spirit, who had moved in a sphere where he was more accustomed to command than to solicit, Cortes ended his days on the second of December one thousand five hundred and forty seven, in the sixty-second year of his age.
Reward of all, who labour for the blind—
His warped mind
Sigh'd for the Indian valley, where the maid
His boyhood lov'd, was laid—
And, tho' his pride of heart allow'd no trace,
Of his soul's sorrow, to o'ercloud his face,
He never smil'd again!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |