Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
I. | PART I.
BALLADS OF THE NEW WORLD. |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
II. |
Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | ||
I. PART I. BALLADS OF THE NEW WORLD.
No. I. COLUMBUS.
[The great Christopher Columbus, who gave a new world to Spain, was the son of a Genoese wool-comber. He early evinced an uncontrollable passion for a maritime life; and, while yet a stripling, fought against the fleets of Venice. Visiting Portugal, he maintained himself by selling charts. Slowly he elaborated his great discovery, till it flashed upon him with the certainty of a secret disclosed from Heaven. After years of torturing suspense in the courts of princes, during which he must have suffered more sadness of the inmost soul than even his great countrymen, Dante and Tasso, or even our own Spenser, Columbus obtained the patronage he needed; furnished with scanty and tardily afforded aid, from the pious and warm-hearted Queen of Spain; tacitly encouraged by the cold and calculating Ferdinand, and zealously assisted by a speculative shipowner, he set forth one day in August from Palos, a small fishing town in Andalusia; and, with a desponding and superstitious crew, launched boldly into an unknown ocean, to discover an unknown world. Who is ignorant of the greatest triumph of genius? Within a month he landed on the shore of St. Salvador.]
Not for the orange-teeming south, not for the icy north;
No glittering sand from the naked chiefs of Afric's distant shore;
Not bound to the land of the myrtle-grove, where the heaven ever smiles.
Then he might say what unknown land they seek across the wave.
That sought some hut, some resting-place, they still might call a home.
Like staunch slot-hounds on a bleeding boar, flew fast those vessels three;
For their hopes had sunk with the sinking sun, ere the coming night grew dark:
And the ghastly forms of a fevered sleep rose up in each coward mind:
But worse than death it seemed to them, to sail—they knew not where.
When it shed its cheering golden light from the heavens flaming red;
Amidst those kneeling mariners, but one looked joyful there.
Came the solemn sound of the vesper-bell, so sad—so mournfully;
Came on the breeze of the evening, the sigh of the convent bell;
On one ear alone unheeded fell that mournful sobbing loud.
What pathless seas might intervene ere they saw the crowned khan;
Ere they traversed the leagues that sever Spain from the clime of the rich Cathay.
They kneel to the saint, whose triple fires on the mast in the tempest shine.
When the thunder bursts and rives the cloud, and shakes the earth and sea.
One eye shone bright as the heaven's arch when the summer's storm has waned.
One voice spoke hope and comfort, and bad the faint heart cheer.
Columbus' cheek was still unblenched as he joined in the parting prayer.
Who with a crew of cravens could win a deathless name?
Where mid a halo of golden light the sun had sunk to rest;
Like a crowned and mighty conqueror preparing him to die.
Down went the sun in the fiery west, with just such frantic glee.
Came holy night, without a star, untended and alone.
As the last faint smile of a martyr as beautiful to see;
“On, on to the promised land,” he cried, “to the sun's bright resting-place!
That an angel showed me in a dream the glories of that land—
Rose up to a sky unstained by cloud, the scent of a thousand flowers;
And the forests' floors were paved with fruit, dropped from a myriad stems.
Like the glimpse a suffering soul might catch of the blessed Paradise,
For toil and woe, and promises forgot as soon as made.”
In vain they gazed, for a gathering cloud hid the land from the aching sight;
But wife and child, and all that's dear, the ocean had bereft.
A desert track, where, since the Flood, no venturous keel had been.
Unstirred by wind, unheaved by storm—those silent waters lie.
A flaming star, like a fallen lamp, from the vault of heaven past.
His eye on the needle ever bent, as the ship o'er the still sea flew.
Looks up from out his ocean lair, to see those vessels pass.
A cross of flame to guide the bark, lit up the midnight air.
“Ye faithless men, take comfort—what further want ye now?”
Like a spendthrift son it joyed to fly from the land that the salt floods lave.
And sunk in the glory that it rose, on clouds and waves of flame.
For those weary men, each coming morn, less brightly shone its rays.
And the piled-up clouds seemed a distant land, framed for eternity.
High over head, from the watchman's nest, the listening sailor clung.
By night, the moon, on their gleaming track, showered down her silver rain.
That flames in the broad, unbroken sky, an aperture of hell.
Last link that binds the earth to sea, fled from them with the night.
As long as to foolish, ardent youth, seem the years of infancy.
And still, like a hideous fevered dream, greater their terror grew.
Had heeded not if the mighty God from the sky had spoken then.
By the wind's deep whisper of his name, they never had been awed.
Of ghastly things and changing forms that followed in their wake.
And his fiery eye, the sand-paved deeps lights with a ghastly glimmer.
In vain he points to the clouds that bar their view of the distant west,
To tear from the sea-god's hidden world, the veil of time away.
And gaze on the thousand leagues of sea their caravels have passed.
Seem idle thoughts of a summer's eve, a madman's fantasy.
And told by the bar on the silver'd plank, that the middle watch had past.
While the caravel, as it knew not toil, flies in the freshened gale.
And smiles as he points to the gathering weed that slowly drifteth by.
Whose robe is rich with the sparkling dyes, a rich-clad prince is he.
Who dives as deep as he can fly, beneath the white reef's brow.
They seem belated wanderers from some land in the distant west.
But such as follow the husbandman, that sows the golden grain.
Still seems the far horizon, all land, and sea, and sky.
For the ocean seems to gird the earth with its broad and crystal band.
As louder grew the muttered curse, and darker grew the frown.
And one half drew a dagger from out its hidden sheath.
When the needle once, as the dial true, points no longer to its star?
Hath, in an hour of dearest need, thus tampered with our guide.
And bar us from our homeward course, like a torrid blast from hell.”
Till the coal-black darkness melts away, at the sight of the dawning sun.
The first on the watch at the break of dawn, and the last to rest is he.
And many a hand, with a curse, was laid on the ready dagger-hilt.
As on the face of a shepherd falls the red morning's beam.
What does a madman, seeking gold, care for Castilian's life?
Still as the statue of a saint, with his high and thoughtful brow.
Why rush to death, while still there's hope, a madman's eye to please?
To seek, like a second Jonah, the groves of his golden shore.
We hie us home!” Columbus cried, “God's holy will be done!”
They could not choose but wonder. 'Twas God who gave that power.
When on his knees, in silent prayer, that mariner they saw.
With the sea-weed hung, with the sea-shell bossed, a swiftly drifting mast.
Then to the land of rich Seville they speed them home again.
Sad evening comes, and its cloudy pall blots daylight from the sky;
And the bark ploughs on its hopeless course through shoals of the uptorn weed.
But still no glimpse of purple coast, and all around is sky.
But the voice of an unseen Comforter forbad his heart to grieve.
And darkness broods with outstretched wings on the silent ocean's breast.
And it fanned Columbus' burning cheek at the closing of the day.
So, soft and mild, that gentle breeze braced on the idle sail.
Where first, as a child, he saw the barks of his own mountain land.
As through the shrouds, with a pleasant tune, it rustled up aloft.
When the one long-nourished hope of life must from the bosom part.
Though the cold dew fell on his burning cheek and on his fevered brow.
What means that gleam on the good ship's lee—that speck of fiery light?
'Tis the torch of a midnight wanderer on the long-expected strand.”
It seems a life, a thousand lives, ere the dawning of the day.
As o'er the land of promise it slowly 'gins to dawn.
He felt like a conquering Cæsar might when he mounted the Capitol.
On a land of boundless forests, of mountains, and of streams.
A thousand isles in the distant west may there all hidden be.
With wild amaze, and cries of joy, gazed then the rebel band.
Now strangely in their dazzled eyes shone the unexpected sight.
As when they sank to welcome sleep, so still he gazeth now.
And cried, “All hail, Columbus! St. George has blessed thee!”
Who has added a vast and unknown land to the monarchy of Spain.
Who has planted the cross on the Indian shore, in the region of the Khan!
Hail! to the land of the western sky, that catches the last red ray.
The spot where, since the world was young, the sun has sunk to sleep.”
A hymn to the Virgin sung by men whose cheeks are bathed in tears.
Waves high the blazon of Castille upon the new-found shore;
Waves high the sign of the holy cross, the cross of Calvary.
The seamen fall, for his calm pale face glows with a light divine.
As, when the western sky grows pale, flames up the eastern dawn.
No. II. COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.
[Bowed to the earth by the petty intrigues of a foreign court; disgusted with the cold gratitude of the sovereign who had benefited by the noble enterprise, which he had not aided; reviled by the envious; cursed by the disappointed; hated by the proud, whom his great soul disdained to court; as a climax to his sufferings he was thrown into prison by the illegal sentence of the governor, of the very island of which he himself had been ruler. His release was soon obtained. The good and the noble demanded it with a common voice. Poor and neglected he returned to Spain, to wait, as in his early days, an unheeded suitor at the doors of the great; and he died, after two years of misery and ineffectual prosecution of his claims, quite broken-hearted,— an example while the world lasts—of the extreme bounds of national ingratitude.]
Like an eastern king with sceptre broke, and from his proud throne hurled;
Though the sunbeam gilds the prison wall, he raiseth not his eyes.
When his eyes glared bright with a wild amaze at a new and wondrous land.
Are fetters meet for him who gave a new world to her reign?
But the felon's iron fetter the soul that eateth in—
Like the banded snake of the torrid zone, the tropic's monster birth—
Like a pinioned soul in hell below, the sleeping wretch is bound.
On the man who first on those Pagan shores planted the holy cross?
And I watered the bread that alms had bought, with the heaven dropping rain?
Let him who boasts of charity, weep o'er my wretched fate.
And bore unmoved the menial's mock, the scoff of the vassals' band.
I rose on the wings of the angels, and sought the golden west.
Rich as a ship of the Indian seas, my soul with peace was fraught.
The shaft of a churl flew soaring up, and pierced the eagle's breast.
Is nought to the sneer that brands the brow, to the curse that blasts the name.
I lie at peace, though at hour of prime my head were stricken off.
When the jeering face that mocks my grief, looks through the prison bars.
Still broods on the mind that's lulled to rest, the halcyon of peace.
From my early youth, but on that shore to plant the cross divine.
The thorny soil, that with bleeding feet, the blessed Jesu trod.
I would but drive the Infidel from holy Palestine.
The sacred spot where in fiendish rage blasphemes the desert child.”
And gentle thoughts of happier days blend with the coming dream.
A troop of dream-like visions came swiftly dreaming by.
And mused, as sank the setting sun, where the land of the dead may be.
A child among his playmates floating a paper bark.
With the cry of “St George for Genoa,” bear down on the Pisan fleet.
Again he bent o'er the well-worn chart, in the lone midnight hour.
As the stranger takes the proffered alms, his pallid cheek grows red.
Bends at the hour of twilight, seen but by God the while.
And hear the noble Genoese of his great project tell.
For the distant west, he saileth forth, without a thought of fear.
Till, with the day, the new found land dawns on his dazzled sight.
Where the riches of the Old World with the New World's treasures meet.
Are looking with awe and wonder on the Indians and their gold.
The shadows of still greater lands, is like a dial's cast.
Come the storms of a king's displeasure, and his bright hopes overwhelm.
And these fair and sea-girt islands that stud the broad green tide.
Unheeded by the basest there, unpitied, and alone.
His stripling son behind his mule, that slowly paces, ran.
That once through Barcelona came in Indian gold arrayed.
He saw a land more fair than earth—he woke, and felt the chain.
And ebbing reason to the mind comes slowly back with pain.
Then God on the wretch takes pity, and sends his blessed sleep.
'Tis the signal for the slave, whose axe to the pinioned men gives peace.”
What means that tread of hurried feet, that cry of the coming throng?
Does this galling iron fit the man who loved our Spain so well?”
'Mid the shouts of the veering multitude, he leaves the felon's hold.
For they felt that a spirit had left their land—gone, to return no more.
For they held him a being come to earth, sent by the gods on high.
What gift of golden ducats can heal a bruised heart?
Can stamp decay on the chalice lip of the richly dyed flower.
No. III. THE BATTLE OF TOBASCO.
[The Battle of Tobasco was the first conflict of Cortes with the natives of the newly discovered continent. Having by this victory secured a foot-hold, and having, in perhaps unconscious imitation of Cæsar, burned the few vessels which afforded him the only hope of escape, he commenced his victorious march into the interior in search of the great Mexican empire, of which he heard so much. The Aztec armies were gorgeous in their rich feather surcoats; their eagle banners, their golden helmets and breastplates, and their coronets of plumes.
Or than the evening glories which the sun
Slants o'er the moving many-coloured sea.”
—Southey.
With no jocund wild bird's notes;
'Tis the savage hum of the Indian drum,
On the troubled air that floats
On Tobasco's plain, thick as northern rain,
Or the sands on yon ocean's beach,
With a burning gleam, the spear heads beam
As far as the eye can reach.
Like some waving sea of flowers:
On their banners stream the hot sun's beam,
A golden splendour showers.
From the pathless height, where their Fire-gods might
From the mountain breathe the flame;
From where the sky wears ever a dye,
Those bright helmed chieftains came.
The war-cry loud and wild;
To the god they prize with the diamond eyes,
They would offer the sun's fair child.
“They hastened here from yon bright sphere,
On their blanched and woven sail:
Through the fleecy clouds the moon that shrouds
When the evening sky grew pale.”
No Paradise divine;
And their Sun-god gave, when they crossed the wave,
No love for his Indian shrine;
On this holy coast they value most,
The gold of the sun's own hue:
And I've seen them pore the metal o'er
As no other god they knew.”
No red stone sheds its light—
On their forms divine no feathers shine,
With a thousand colours bright.
From their limbs, as ours, the red blood showers,
When our stone knife cleaves the skin;
Their quivering hearts from the hot flesh part,
When the priest's hand gropes within.”
Came swiftly on their van;
With bare swords grasped, and our corslets clasped
To meet the foe we ran.
In a piercing shower the arrows pour
On the shouting bands of Spain,
But Castille's proud boast will hold his post,
Though the missiles fall like rain.
To hew their bleeding way,
In vain they rush with a surging crush,
On those whom they deem their prey.
For the cannon's breath is the voice of death,
And it roars like their war god's shout;
All the wide plain o'er they backward pour,
As they fly in a scattered rout.
On the Indians' breaking rank,
With a cry of fear that thrills the ear,
From that piercing charge they shrank.
For the steeds to them as the waves o'erwhelm
Those monsters of the sea:
For no javelin will pierce the skin
Of the forms of Eternity.
For the Indian king is down;
The cross waves high in the burning sky,
With the flag of the Spanish crown.
We'll end the fray of this plumed array,
With one charge of serried spears;
‘Santiago’ on, for the day is won,
Hark! how the vanguard cheers.”
Bent to avenge the dead;
While the holy sign of a faith divine,
Waves o'er each warrior's head.
As far above, o'er the cowering dove
Stoops the falcon on his prey—
Through the wood of spears came the thunder cheers,
From Spain's bright armed array.
Rough with the precious gem,
That was borne of yore, their chief before,
Is seized upon by them.
A Spanish shaft the blood has quafft
Of Tobasco's dearest lord:
As he wounded lies, his heart's blood dyes
The point of Vasco's sword.
Like some sorcerer's magic bird;
Their banner flies and seems to rise,
As if cheered by the shouts it heard.
Wield the war axe well, though the Indian shell
With the roar of the storm may vie—
Cleave the plumed head, with their own blood red
Their feathered robes we'll dye.
When the Moor bent low the knee;
And forswore each spell of their prophet of hell
For the Lord of Calvary.
One charge, one shout, from the host rang out,
On the plain they stand alone;
Let the forests ring while the mass we sing,
Ere the setting sun has flown.”
No. IV. THE TEARS OF CORTES.
[An old Spanish chronicler says, that Cortes was filled with grief when he looked down from the high mountains of Tacuba upon the great city of Mexico, which he was about to storm. Its rich valley, hemmed in by rocks of porphyry; its wide lakes, and below him rich groves of the cocoa and the sugar-cane, plantations of the aloe and the maize, productions of the tropics; and by his side the oak, the pine, and the cypress of Europe. The incident seems to have made a deep impression upon the minds of the rude soldiers of Cortes, not incapable of deep feeling, for some frag ments of a Spanish song, written at that time, are still preserved, and suggested the following ballad:—]
With palace and temple gleaming bright in the sun's fierce scorching ray,
With its thousand roofs that stretched afar, with grove and terrace wide,
Hemmed in by the granite mountains that rise on every side.
Tinting the hot and burning sky with a still more lurid ray,
And the broad still lakes calm gleaming, like a silver buckler bright,
Gazing up at the clouds like some spirit's eye, longing to see the night.
As an Indian king heaps the varied gem in the red and golden cup,
They seemed like the burning crater's mouth where mountain fiends of old
Fuse the melted ore to a thousand shapes, and sport with the changing gold.
Through their massive boughs the mountain breeze breathes sad and mournfully;
The sun sinks low, the swift pirogue no longer seeks the gale
With their countless oars, their gilded sides, and their broad, white, matted sail.
And folds its great dark wings from flight, that city sunk to rest;
And now, one diamond-lighted star peers through the clouded sky,
The lower sank the burning sun the brighter it shone on high.
And the mother weaves the feather robe, the princely robe, the while.
One pious prayer to the Aztec god, one cup to the gods they drink;
And then, on their gilt and plumed couch in holy sleep they sink.
Before the idol flaked with blood bent diadem and crown.
Before the god of the bleeding hearts the Indian king was kneeling,
And thoughts of the foe he deemed divine, o'er his troubled mind was stealing.
That seemed to burn in the rosy light of the sun's last parting glow,
And he wept as he thought of the varied joys of that wide and beauteous land,
And the broad fair realms a dying chief gave to his feeble hand.
Where the fire-fly and the flame-dyed flowers light up the trees and bowers,—
Realms, that a god he never knew is tearing from his sway—
As now behind the mountain chain sunk down the ebbing day.
Little thou thought of the coming plague that should blast the golden west.
No dark-winged dream, with scowling eye, hovered before thy sleep,
Thou laid'st thee down with smiles of joy, but rose, alas! to weep.
No thought of wrong, no thought of crime—no dream of ill-intent;
Came up the scent of the terrace flowers, fanned by the gentle south.
Not with the smile of a conqueror was Cortes looking down;
'Twas not with the forest serpent's eye, nor its fixed and cruel glare,
When he spies the helpless humming-bird, was that hero gazing there.
With no dark-lined sneer of cruel scorn, looked Cortes on the town;
Not as when woodman drives through the boar the keen and griding spear—
He gazed with no look of stern delight,—he saw it with a tear.
With the eye of a saint with pity filled, he beheld the stately town;
In slow round drops the tears stole down his seared and bronzed cheek,
He bowed his head in solemn thought, for he dared not to speak.
Since as a child, a sorrowing child, he wept o'er a grave alone,
And he grasps the hoary cypress stem—the tree of the dark green leaf,
And he thinks of the first-shed tear-drops that gave his heart relief.
And he veiled the sorrow that marks his face with his mailed hand;
But he gazed again, for o'er the plain came on the hot winds blast—
A maddened roar, which louder swells, ere the first wild shout has past.
Silent and still the temple lay, beneath the clouds all red:
'Twas fearful, but a moment since, when the blood-dyed sun went down,
And shed its last faint mellow light on the distant volcano's crown.
The last faint ray of sunset rests on the pine-clad hill;
But the city is all stirring and rousing for the strife,
From each hut and palace terrace the Aztecs wake to life.
Its thundering moans from yon pyramid o'er the city's roof resound;
Look! from each terrace now burst forth bright, dazzling jets of light,
And their mingled blaze with a dreadful glare, lights the newly-fallen night.
Of the gathering feast, when captives die with many a horrid rite;
Stands out the giant pyramid, as yon fire-fraught mountain high.
Their upturned countless faces are lighted by that glow,
And see, great God—now Jesu' help, O hear the deep-sighed prayer
That captive band that slowly mounts the lofty terrace there;
Now, thou, Great God of vengeance, draw thy avenging sword;
Hear us, O Christ, thou Son of God! in this our hour of need;
Kneel down, and pray St. Jago, so mercy be thy meed.
Goad up to the roar of the thunder-drum, the pale and trembling throng;
Those phantoms white seem like the fiends that torture the souls in hell,
Where in the region of fire and ice, the maddened sinners dwell.
To their eager ears its voice seemed then like a cruel laugh of scorn;
Look, Sandoval, look, Cortes! our poor companions there—
All Spaniards, no Tlascalans mount up the blood-stained stair.
Would that our arms might strike one blow against the Indian might;
No pain to die 'mid the shock of spears; no pang in parting breath;
But thus to die like a butchered wolf—this, this indeed is death.
In their dark serried phalanx we'd let the light of day;
See, there they come, in pomp arrayed, look at the fettered band
Gazing on sky and mountain, the doomed wretches stand.
Than thus to die, without mass or prayer, for the cruel Pagan's mirth.
Great God! behold they strip them bare for the bloody sacrifice;
They will offer their hearts to the Aztec god before our very eyes.
Behind in prayer kneels Perez, who won the chieftain's crown;
And his eye is turned on Juan, whose keen Toledo's sway,
For the second rank of spearmen dug out a bleeding way.
When he fell from the blow the Aztec gave with the crystal-bladed knife;
And dragged him stunned from his dying horse o'er the mingled heaps of slain.
One hundred wretched Pagan lives could not redeem his loss.
Now round the flaming altar-fires, before their idol's fane,
The wounded dance; when they strive to rest, they goad them on again.
To teach the proudest Pagan host the power of a Christian spear;
Could human blood—could a dozen lives have saved that band from death,
No one that stood on that mountain top but had yielded up his breath.”
The monsters their hearts, the war-god's prey, from their throbbing corses tear.
The last is dead; and beneath the edge of the flint's sharp-cutting knife,
Has yielded up to the God who gave, his last faint gasp of life.
To plant on yon fane the holy cross—to tear from the king his crown.”
The rites are o'er, but the priests chant loud as the bloody torrents flow,
With a yelling laugh, and a cruel scoff, they hurl each corse below.
'Till our dying day, like a branded scar, its memory shall remain;
Deep was the vow that Cortes breathed, as again he gazeth down—
Not with the tear that pity sheds, but a dark and angry frown.
'Twas the bitter thought that wrung his heart of vengeance for the dead;
The tears shook Cortes fiercely off from his fierce and glaring eye,
And thrice he shook his falchion at the stars in the pale clear sky.
When you gave the flesh of their dusky prince to the loathsome vulture's maw.
Banners advance! wave high the cross against this doomed town,
Dark from the clouds the God of Hosts in anger looketh down.”
No. V. THE SORROWFUL NIGHT.
[The night on which the Spaniards retreated from Mexico, having in vain, after the death of Montezuma, endeavoured to preserve their footing in that great golden city of the west, is still called by the degenerated descendants of the first conquerors, the “Noche Triste,” or “the Sorrowful Night.” It was an awful shipwreck of Cortes' hopes, and one which the wonderful resources of his mind, his constancy, and his indomitable genius, could alone have retrieved. The day of vengeance came at last. What availed crystal blade against steel hauberk, or lasso against Spanish spear.
It was a day of terrible retribution—of “garments rolled in blood”—of confused sound of the battle, and the empire of Mexico fell like a Colossus—never to rise again.]
And the umber'd gleam, of their ruddy beam, lit the men who the night-watch kept.
And strove against sling of the Indian king, and the might of his dark array.
From many a land the flaming brand had summoned the distant chief.
No silver light of the stars once bright, shone through the clouds on high.
But the cross instead shall raise its head, as high as fair Seville's spire.
And save that chief, that died of grief, no friend had Spain beside.
No heart had borne the cruel scorn, of the chiefs at his changed lot.
Striving to read the Christian creed, the broken-hearted died.
Till he drives from the land the wounded band, the weary hours he counts.
And the wild storm wave, the rocks that lave, is less fierce than the Aztec host.
“We risked our life, when one to five, and we'll venture it again.
Nerve each iron heart for a warrior's part, we'll cast the die to-morrow.
Let no fear of ours, in the darkest hours, be ever known in Spain.
Botel for retreat, says the hour is meet, who reads the stars like a book.
Their varied light, as they glimmer bright, will guide us on our way.
Let no muttered prayer pierce the silent air, no war-cry of Castille.
We must onward far, ere the morning star tells of the coming light;
We rest at last, when the danger's past, ere comes the morning's glow.”
The serried host, with no trumpet's boast, o'er the narrow causeway haste.
They seem like a train of the ghosts of the slain, as they leave the leagured hold.
Rises the wall of the palace hall, where so many found a tomb.
He bends his ear, each sound to hear, he'll save if man can save.
And still more fleet, through the last long street they march, as comes the day.
Ere the thunder loud, bursts through the cloud, with all the earthquake's power.
That trumpet's clang, through the air that rang, was a signal from on high.
Like the volcan's flame, the brightness came, from a thousand springs of light.
The city seems to awake from dreams, and to shout with a monster's roar.
From the city borne, the sound of the horn o'er the darkened waters come.
Their robes of white, to the Spaniards' sight, seem to shroud no forms of earth.
But still the rear, with no thoughts of fear, kept the millions all at bay.
And the war storm sped, with a thunder tread, when they charged us at our backs.
On a charger white, in the heavens height, we saw St. Jago ride.”
In no woman's weed, on a barbed steed, in a trooper's mail arrayed.
And there's hope for life, in this lull of strife, for the last canal is near.
In a crowded mass they strove to pass, but a chasm gapeth there.
And the savage shout still ringeth out, above that fearful cry.
Through the horrid din they drag within the foe to the sacrifice.
But the ingot chest presses on his breast, and the red gold drags him down.
And the waters are strewn with the breastplates hewn, and the spoils of the host that fled.
And the waters' gloom, like a gorgeous tomb, grows dark above his head.
Through the fire-lit air comes the shriek and prayer to the cowards that were flying.
Through plated mail, through bright steel scale, drives fast the Indian arrow.
On the mangled slain, on the missiles' rain, beams forth the golden day;
On gashed form, with limbs still warm, that strewed the ghastly place;
Fanned the pale cheek of the soldier weak, who hails it with a cheer.
On the calm cool air came shriek and prayer, though still the battle roars.
The women groan as they mourn alone in horror's deepest gloom.
And his armour gleams through the dark red streams that onward fiercer pour.
That could ward the dart that to the heart flew on the restless wing.
And gems and ore that rude hands tore from the Indian monarch's hold;
And royal robes o'er-bedabbled with gore were wrapped round the dead.
It breaks the rank and it rends the plank of the warriors' black canoe.
The iron rain still sweeps the plain, still charge they with the pike.
Further than deer, though winged by fear, e'er leapt from sharp-fanged hound.
Like a man who breasts the foam-wave's crests, bold Cortes holds the pass.
To palace and hall of their capital they fly to mourn their dead.
With no trumpet's note, no banners float, they reach the friendly land.
With no dancing plume to hide their gloom,—blood dripped from their wounded side.
With bowed head they mourn the dead,—weary they march, and slow.
“Where do they ride I fought beside? Where are the absent? Where?”
Hid his bended head as he heard their tread: he mourneth there alone.
For the dead in vain, o'er the wide-spread plain, sounds the trumpet's shrill recal.
On the sighing gale came back the wail, blent with the shout of foes.
No. VI. THE MURDER OF PIZARRO.
[This stern adventurer possessed all the courage of Cortes, without any of his milder virtues. His bravery passed into ferocity; he was avaricious, coarse-minded, and cruel. Less decisive than his greater predecessor, and having a more peaceful people to subdue, he would have perhaps failed amongst the warlike nations of Mexico. Pizarro was assassinated in a chamber of his own palace at Lima, a city of his own erection, when in the plenitude of his power, by a band of Chili men, needy adventurers, friends of his former companion in arms, but then rival, Almagro, whose rebellion he had suppressed, but whom he had disdained to punish more severely. Uneducated, cruel, and despotic, he died regretted by none; a sword used by God and thrown aside. In the moment of death, he showed that intense and gloomy superstition which distinguishes the Spaniards, blended with much of the ancient hero. Exclaiming, “Jesu!” he traced a cross upon the floor with the blood that welled fast from his own life-streams, and was stooping to kiss it, when a blow, more deadly than its fellows, severed soul from body.]
As the viceroy in his pride of state, came riding through the town;
More fit for war's fierce tourney was that scarred and bronzed face,
Than for those mummings of a king, and courtiers' forced grimace.
Careless of that approving crowd, he spurs him proudly by;
One frown he gave to that starving crew, then turned away his eye.
That falls upon his doublet and its dark sable fold;
A cruel taunt is graven above his cold stern brow,
“For the men of Chili,” is that badge, that with the bright stones glow.
Sweep in the viceroy's retinue in their rich and lustrous pride;
But he who tore from the Inca's head the wreath he called a crown,
Cares not for the turning blind worm, that his arm'd heel tramples down.
When the Incas ruled the sun's fair land, in the glorious days of old;
But far unlike those rich clad men, was that famine pinched band,
No pearls, no gems, could rebels glean from the hasty conquered land.
That the sea of death hath swallowed up and yielded not again;
“No barbed spear, no Indian blade, his princely heart clove through—
They strangled him in a dungeon, as you might a cursed Jew.”
They slew him ere the sunset, as you'd stab a captive boor;
And they heaved a groan, that starving crew, when they thought of their murdered chief,
But hate soon followed sorrow, and chased the rising grief.
And fiercer grew their muttered words, and louder grew their cry:
“Shame, that a wretched swineherd's son should lord it o'er Peru—
Shame, that a bravo has the fame Almagro never knew.”
He better loved to stem the war, than rob the Indian's hall;
'Twas his broad gold piece, his well filled pouch, that gave Peru to Spain,
'Twas he that planted Jesu's Cross upon the Sun-god's fane.
Shame! that a murderer's mailed foot should spurn a starving band;
Though now he's decked with the yellow pearls, brought from the island coast,
We are of as pure and proud a blood as such as he can boast.
Or pine away when the revel's shout rings loudly in our ear;
Woe's me for the young Almagro, so fit to grace a throne,
Too young to sink to a peasant's grave, unpitied and alone.”
“In God and the blessed Virgin's name, let's cleave the villain down;
Wait for no white flag waving, for mass or holy tide,
But slay him now in the bloom of sin, in the hour of his fullest pride.
Who'll starve in the sight of plenty—poor when the flood runs gold?
I swear by hell's red prison, who will not follow me,
I'll stab him as a craven in this hour of jeopardy.”
To save his son he would have shed the life-blood from his veins;
“Better a blow from headsman's axe, than life to ebb away,
Better a blow from spear or sword than dying day by day.
For come what may, be fortune worst, we can but meet our fate;”
With flashing blade and blazing torch grim Reda rushes out.
Throw open now the barred door and follow me who will;
Long live the son of the murdered man, the gallant and the brave,
And a shroud for the grey old swineherd, let him reign within the grave.
When the viceroy, on the gibbet tree, like a strangled thief shall swing;
And he who jeered at starving men shall feed the vulture foul,
He shall give the bird what he grudged to man, and God receive his soul.”
For love had none for the iron chief, no love, but much of fear;
They hurry on through the broad paved square—alas! 'twere now too late,
One brave man, 'gainst a thousand foes, might have kept that palace gate.
“Arm! arm! my lord, for the Chili men are banded for thy death.”
“How pale his cheek!” cried the dauntless one, as he drained his cup of wine,
“'Tis some fool's dull tale—who dreams of fear, thou little page of mine!”
I deemed them but a villain's hopes told o'er a crucifix.”
In rushed a second serving man, still whiter was his cheek,
Chained was his tongue with very fear—“Speak, drunken varlet, speak!”
“Arm, good my lord, arm, nobles all, the traitors come apace;”
And he gazes at the chamber portal, and draws his ready sword,
And points with his finger to the page to arm their aged lord.
Through the wide bare rooms, in eager haste, rush in the furious rout;
And the jest that the idle laugher told, sinks to a whisper faint;
The talk of wine and lady's love, to prayer to Lima's saint.
They left the half-drained wine-cup, and hurried them away.
“Bar the door, good Garcia, bar out the rogues' array,
Like two chafed lions in our den, we'll keep the knaves at bay.”
And they tumble the bleeding body to the marble hall below.
As had greeted their ears from the viceroy's mouth, ay! but that very morn.
They stood like the eager hunters that would spear the foaming boar.
Then Pizarro rushed to aid the guard, in their face his helm he hurled:
“What, ho!” he cried, “ye stabbers, scum of the newfound world.”
No time for thoughts of anguish, no place for sorrow deep.
But still was left fair Pedro, the youngest of the three;
A thrust from the blade of a partisan has brought him to his knee.
Then fierce glared old Pizarro, and his fiery eye glared wild,
And his sword cleaved helm and corselet, and his sword cleaved mail and targe—
In vain on his breast the arrows splint, in vain the rebels charge.
As well as when in the pride of years he fought by the fair Adage.
And he struggled on, that grey haired man, though the blows fell thick as rain,
As well as he did when he bore the cross on Cuzco's golden plain.
Oh! that, indeed, for the Chili men, were a sharp and biting scoff.”
Then, with a howl of baffled rage, he grasps Alverrez round,
And hurls him at Pizarro, and brings him to the ground.
In vain, Pizarro strikes him down; in vain, the rebel dies.
“He dies too late,” cries Reda, and drives through his heart the sword,
Ere Pizarro sank a dozen blades drank the life-blood of their lord.
He bends to kiss the holy sign—one groan, and all is o'er.
“Shout, for the tyrant's fallen—Pizarro, the lord, is dead,
And now the viceroy's jewelled badge shall deck Almagro's head.”
At the body of him who's fallen, at the mighty one they've slain.
And now the robbers pillage the casket and the shrine,
And bear away the Inca's gold from many a treasure mine.
In a rich and gorgous cavalcade Almagro rides along.
Lowers the stiff and mangled body into an humble grave.
None prayed, “May God assoile him”—none mourned for the dead.
Was an Indian slave, who only knew, to curse, the name of Spain.
No. VII. THE DEATH OF OLD CARBAJAL.
[Francisco de Carbajal, a brave but cruel old warrior, 84 years of age, was executed at the same time with Gonzalo Pizarro, with whom he had conspired to change Peru from a viceroyalty to a monarchy independent of Spain. In the decline of their fortunes this stern, iron-hearted man, said nothing, but hummed the words of a Spanish song:—
The golden region of Peru to the old Castilian sway.
In spite of Carbajal's demon aid, and the proud Gonzalo's boast;
The brave old chief that, strong in age, conquered this broad fair realm.
Than he who tore Peru's great chief from his jewelled palanquin.
Little he thought that the son he left a traitor knave would be.
Will brand his name as he teareth now the sceptre from his hand.
Shall wake on the dismal morrow again to till the earth.
On his broad and fair dominions the sun goes never down.
The silver and gold, like a mighty sea, comes pouring in amain.
Hurled from the high war-saddle the monarch knight of France.
Such fate as Carbajal shall know ere the sun has ceased to shine.
Is served by an evil spirit—a demon sent from hell.
And thought that Peru was far from Spain, and girdled by the sea.
Of Spanish lance and arquebus the madman little recked.
With the dinted helm and the battered arms, a coal-black steed upon.
Say that the steed that no bolt could pierce was no creature of this earth.
They fled, as flies the thistle-beard before the Pampa's blast.
What steel can wound, what fire can sear, the man with a charmed life?
When Almagro's knights dashed on our spears with the earthquake's jarring shock.
Ah! well the men of Chili that dreadful hour may rue.
Such havoc he made as a grim wolf does in the wattled fold.
As when in Potosi's mines he tore the silver from its den.
With armed men he peopled the trees, dark Pulto's mountain round:
How like proud man, who rules the earth, to a devil in hell may be.
“No tales tell the dead,” said Carbajal, with a grim and cruel smile.
When Puelles buried his poniard deep in the wounded viceroy's breast.
The sword swept fast, the axe hewed on, amid the wood of spears.
To show that the cruel viceroy had gone to a bloody tomb.
With untiring foot, athirst for blood, he followed the chief Alberra.
So over steep and chasm the fierce Carbajal flew:
When high in the sky, o'er spear and axe, the rainbow banner's gleaming.
Far on the plain, in an endless wave, thick as stars on a summer night.
On the copper mail and sharp glass blade, shone red the hot sunbeam.
When waves of fire went surging up to the smoke beclouded sky.
Like vapour of costly sacrifice to the Sun-god of Peru.
The Inca came to the Indian town, but ne'er returned again.
And rolled like the broad deep gathering floods of some dark turbid sea.
And he had seen the plumed ranks with the mailed Spaniards meet.
Should brand the arms of the cavalier—should sully all his fame.
And tore down Spain's proud blazoned flag, and trod it to the earth.
As if, in this new and glorious world, a rebel could reign alone.
'Twas conscience half unarmed the hearts of the rebels of Peru.
Just as the monster vulture does the painted humming bird.”
That seems in the air to float along like a bright and living flower.)
O! who can count the rebel knights that lie amid the slain?
As thick as on the thrashing floor in autumn lies the grain.
'Tis Carbajal, the first who dared to charge us on the right.
For, on his track Corteno came, the bravest of the brave.
Carbajal mock'd the parting light, and curs'd the fall of day.
His jaded steed fell 'neath his load—we sprang upon him then.
We bound that bleeding warrior with the unyielding heart.
But his hands weighed down by the heavy load of sin and hidden guilt.
He seems like a new caught ocelot, as he shakes his firm-barred cage.
Then, with a grim and horrid smile, points to his white-seamed scars.
As a trooper of his golden spurs, or the jewelled star of knight.
And Francis yielded up his sword, amid the piles of dead.
Hewed out, 'mid heaps of dying, a deep and bloody tomb.
And such scenes of bygone glory as none again shall know.
Passed o'er the smoking frontier, to storm the Moorish town
And said its knights had the longest spears, and the surest biting steel.
And scared the red-capped cardinals, beneath the giant dome.
When he slew the rich fat herd of monks, as a wolf the sheep would slay.
What cared for death an iron heart, that never knew a fear.
At the trembling fool that held the axe, who could not choose but weep.
As he kneeled there, to bide the blow, and cursed the shaven crown.
And he flung ten-ducats to the crowd, who hail him with a cry.
He broke it in three shivers, with a blow of his pinioned hand.
To use thee as thou shouldst be used, when I am in the grave.”
And he bent him down, as he shouted forth, “Death is eternal sleep.”
With a dull faint sound, the knight's grey head, rolls on the sand below.
No. VIII. THE PROCESSION OF THE DEAD.
[“When an Inca died,” says Prescott, “or, as the Peruvians expressed it, ‘was called home to the mansions of his father, the sun,’ his body was embalmed, and placed with those of his ancestors in the great temple of the sun at Cuzco: there, clad in their royal robes, they sat in chairs of gold, the queens on one side and the kings on the other; their heads bent downwards, and their hands crossed on their bosoms. Several of these royal mummies, hidden by the Peruvians at the conquest, were found by a Spanish corregidor: they were perfect as life, without so much as a hair or an eyebrow wanting. As they were carried through the streets of Lima, decently covered with a mantle, the Indians threw themselves on their knees in sign of reverence, with many tears and groans, and were still more touched when they beheld some of the Spaniards doffing their hats in token of respect to departed royalty.”]
Such jewelled robes and costly plumes by the Incas once were worn,
There's no low chant of death
To show that a crowned conqueror has yielded up his breath.
But, save in the midnight dream, came never back the dead.
There's trampling of feet,
But no measured beat of muffled drum, no chanting in the street.
Not with the sun of other days grows now the cold earth warm;
The god so good, so mild,
Looks down with a frown of anger on his once favoured child.
Is feasting now with the spirit kings in the realms of purer light;
There's gone to a better clime
Many a bright-plumed emperor who ruled of olden time.
Blazed forth in a flood of ceaseless light, the orb of the god of day,
And the gem-encrusted wall
Shone with a light as rich, as fair, as the Inca's palace hall.
Then shone with a matchless radiancy the sun's bright, golden tears;
Alas! that the shining ore
Should have lured the cruel Spaniards to this unhappy shore.
With a rich and varied brilliancy, of a thousand colours shone,
On the golden cornice bright,
They glared, though clouds might veil the day, those triple showers of light.
The moon, embossed in silver, shone with her pallid beam;
And when arose the dawn,
The priests hailed with a gladsome shout the coming of the morn.
I've seen the holy Incas seated like monarchs there;
The priest through the temple crept,
As if his low, deep-chanted hymn could rouse the kings who slept.
Dark was their cheek, as it was in life, and bowed was their head;
Still calm, as if alone,
Sat Peru's once mighty monarchs, each on his golden throne.
On the silence of a mournful thought that stealeth in between,
Like music from without,
From Cuzco's gardens came the gushing fountain's laughing shout.
When the long green plume on each corpse-king's head was shaken by the wind;
Beneath the earth, in a small dark cave of the city of the West;
Such is the common doom,
Though for awhile the corpse embalmed be saved from the tomb.
Who bore the Rainbow banner far into Chili's wild;
O'er the Ande's peaks he swept,
Like a panther on his jungle prey upon the foe he leapt.
As if the weight of some heavy care still brooded on his brow,
And seated by his side
Is an Inca, whose dark raven hair tells still of youth and pride.
Who made the name of great Peru o'er the distant mountains ring,
Ere proud and cruel Spain
With the lust of gold and the thirst for blood ravaged the fertile plain.
Gazed at by the passing stranger, and borne through Lima's street
To the measured tread of multitudes,
To their resting-place, the lonely grave, pass on the royal dead.
In a gorgeous litter, flaming with costly gems and gold,
Upon the flying foes,
Like the sun in its fairest splendour, the monarch's litter goes.
The Indians greet, for the last sad time, those hallowed forms divine;
And as the bearers nearer drew
Themselves, like prostrate worshippers, before the dead they threw.
As on their way to their resting-place, pass by the royal dead;
The setting sun above,
Smiled on the sad procession with the last fond smile of love.
No. IX. THE DESCENT OF THE VOLCANO.
[One of the most chivalrous acts of heroism perhaps ever performed by man, was the descent of Francisco Montano, a noble cavalier in the army of Cortes, into the crater of the great volcano, Topocatepall, which towers above the chain of snowcovered mountains that separate Mexico from Puebla. Lowered in a basket 400 feet down the ghastly depths of the flaming abyss, he gathered sulphur sufficient to manufacture a supply of powder for the use of Cortes' army. What could resist men who made even the most fearful of nature's prodigies thus supply their wants?]
From where o'er the plain of the five broad lakes the snowy volcans tower;
And in the court of the temple, stretched on the paved ground,
Lay groups of friendly Tlascalans the blazing watch-fires round;
And the jests flew fast, and the biting scoff, and the burst of the Indian song,
And many a tale the Spaniards told, to speed the night along.
The cacique fell, by an unknown hand, caught in the hunter's snare;
When through the clouds of sulphurous smoke, that friend and foe had hid,
Cortes sprang up the blazing stairs of the giant pyramid;
On the spot where the blood-stained idol in scorn of God had stood.
And burnt the fleet to ashes, as they leapt upon the strand;
And they mocked the senseless humming-bird that to its flower-built nest
Bade the blood-bestained vulture as a great and favoured guest.
But the wildest tale they heard that night was one Montano told,
Just at the dawn of morning, when the night damp's falling cold.
For sulphur in the crater of the volcan's snowy peak,
Where the Indians think, in a deep abyss, lies an entrance to hell;
For they say in the copper mountains the howling spirits dwell;
And with Pedro, and with Guzman, long ere the dawn of day,
Through the dark pine forest toiling, we slowly made our way;
Till moss and short thick yellow grass alone met anxious gaze;
And soon we left beneath our feet of man all pleasant trace;
Nothing but stunted bushes grew in that dreary place;
Upheaved in stormy billows,—boundless they seemed to be.
Pierced chill through cotton doublet, and through the metal mail.
Long since the sunny land of flowers, and the hot clime, we lost,—
Now slowly dawned before us the land of eternal frost;
And still on helm the sleet and snow the mountain spirit hurled.
While the forest, with its spreading shade, seemed to hide us from the world;
Strange awful spot from whence to see the dawning of the day.
From such a peak gazed Jesus, with Satan by his side,
O'er city, isle and continent, and all the great world's pride.
On such a mount in glory stood He who from heaven came,
When there shone a light in the sky above, and angels breathed His name.
And gazing on the crowded tents he poured his blessing forth.
And above us lie the mountains, the kings of the granite chain,
Who, with the fiery volcans, are guardians of the plain,
Said that the snowy mountain was the granite monster's bride;
In rival pride of greatness,—some Titan reared them high.
And now we brace us to the task, and mount the flaming tower,
So bare the track, no yellow bee hums o'er the aloe's flower.
And the splintered crags of porphyry are seared and thunder-rent,
O'er chasms deep as a mountain, the foaming torrents went.
Unmelted, save where o'er the ice the lava burns a way.
Sweet is the night-dew's fragrance on the wide-spread Aztec plain,
To the scorching showers of ashes, and the lava's fiery rain.
Beneath our feet the lightning for itself a passage wore,
And the trembling throb of the earthquake gave out a sullen roar;
As if to rouse the demons from their centuries of sleep.
That though we turned and slew them, they would not mount up higher.
‘None but a madman,’ muttered they, ‘would thus defile the shrine,
Where the fire-god, clothed in his pomp, shows like a king divine.’
Crept up, by dint of eager foot, and ever grasping hand.
And the lava lay a molten sea, congealed by frozen air.
In a thousand forms of wonder; its course was stayed there;
And now before our aching sight lay a wide and icy tract,
Bright seemed the lustre of its glare beside the lava black.
And above us shone the ceaseless fire, whose blaze lit each paled face;
And the Indians deemed us sorcerers, whose toil and livelong strife
Would tear from the hostile demon, eternity of life.
And rarer still and colder grew the chill mountain air,
Scarce can the overburdened breast the weight of the doublet bear.
Its lava waves were seething with a dull and ruddy ray;
The spark-lit smoke is rising, and the lava torrents flow;
And high on that untrod mountain's top, on that high and scathed cone,
Wrapped in a black and lurid cloud a spirit sits alone.
We offered a prayer to the God of peace, bethinking us of death;
But even there, in that desert wild, and on that lofty peak,
God with an eye of pity looked down upon the weak;
He heard,—for the wind, with a scornful blast, drove the lava river back,
And left to the smoking crater's mouth a bare and withered track.
Few would have ventured footstep there,—no! not to win a crown.
Hung over hot boiling tide of fire, and fusing wave of gold,
I sought the sulphur drops that clung to the side of the demon hold;
Like serpents that strive to reach a bird, the veins of metal twined
On the calcined sides of that furnace, cracked with the chilling wind.
As I felt of the ebbing tide of fire the hot returning glow.
I swooned when I reached the crater's brink, safe from that burning wave,
And saw fond faces gaze on me as risen from the grave;
As again I felt the mountain breeze upon my heated cheek.
And I kissed the cross-hilt of my sword, upon the mountain side,
As back my load to the cheering camp I bore with a victor's pride.”
Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | ||