Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World :: :: University of Virginia Library

[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.

“Brighter than beam the rainbow hues of light,
Or than the evening glories which the sun
Slants o'er the moving many-coloured sea.”

—Southey.

'Tis the tropic spring, but the dark woods ring
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.

With many a gem flames their diadem,
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.

And the fierce notes swell from the Indian shell,
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.”

“Where the strangers dwell, is a barren hell,
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.”

“Their simple mail has no golden scale,
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.”

Thus did they prate, as with step elate,
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.

Through our battered mail the axes fail,
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.

And the war-horse bounds like the fierce stag-hounds,
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.

“Push on the pikes while the good sword strikes,
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.”

With a savage bound like the fierce bloodhound,
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.

And the standard old that flames with gold,
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.

“And on, still on, with a pinion strong,
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.

Think of Baza's fight in the murk black night,
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.”