Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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| III. |
| IV. | No. IV.
THE TEARS OF CORTES. |
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| IX. |
 | II. |
 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
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No. IV. THE TEARS OF CORTES.
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[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:—]
From Tacuba gazed Cortes, on the city beneath that lay
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.
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.
And the pyramids, with their fiery light, that blaze by night and day,
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.
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.
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And each passing hue of the richest cloud, in those lakes is treasured up,
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.
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.
And at his feet the dark pines grew; like the surging of the sea,
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.
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.
Like some ocean bird that rests at eve on the ocean's throbbing breast,
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 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 dark chief kissed his infant child, and smiled as fathers smile,
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.
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.
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Before a shrine all black with gore, a dusky form knelt down,
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.
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.
And he gazed on the volcan mountains, their peaks hid with the snow
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.
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.
O'er the golden maize and the aloe's bloom flutters the king of flowers,
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.
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.
Fair, happy city of the Sun, lulled like a child to rest,
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.
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.
As heedless as a sleeping babe, when the murderer o'er him bent,
No thought of wrong, no thought of crime—no dream of ill-intent;
Yet sweeter than breath that wafted from a slumbering infant mouth,
Came up the scent of the terrace flowers, fanned by the gentle south.
No thought of wrong, no thought of crime—no dream of ill-intent;
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Came up the scent of the terrace flowers, fanned by the gentle south.
From Tacuba gazed Cortes, not with a savage frown,
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.
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.
Not with the glance of the fierce-eyed hawk, when he strikes his quarry down,—
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 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.
His cheek flamed not as the reddened cloud, ere the lightnings hurry down;
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.
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.
No woman's grief that heart could feign, no tears had Cortes known
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.
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.
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And he turns his head from the wondering eyes of that encircling band,
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.
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.
It seemed but now that the city slept, like a city of the dead;
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.
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.
And the silent lake with that parting hue, is bright and golden still;
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.
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.
Hark! that sound again; 'tis the serpent-drum, it summons the priests around;
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.
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.
“That ghastly fire is the priestly sign, if Cortes they tell aright,
Of the gathering feast, when captives die with many a horrid rite;
Now the moon is up and clear, and dark against the reddened sky
Stands out the giant pyramid, as yon fire-fraught mountain high.
Of the gathering feast, when captives die with many a horrid rite;
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Stands out the giant pyramid, as yon fire-fraught mountain high.
“I see the gathering multitude in the wide courts below,
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;
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;
“Hear us, ye saints that favour Spain, sweet Mother of our Lord,
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.
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.
“And behind them crowd the white-robed priests, who, with mock and savage song,
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.
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.
“High above all, like a demon's voice, peals Guatamozin's horn,
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.
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.
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“Ah! must we here all powerless gaze from this farremoved height;
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.
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.
“O for one charge, one bursting charge, against this plumed array,
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.
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.
“Better for them if mother's hand had slain them at the birth,
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.
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.
“Look! there's Guzman there, whom Pedro saw with a stone-axe cloven down;
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.
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.
“And yonder too's Alfonzo, who saved great Cortez' life,
When he fell from the blow the Aztec gave with the crystal-bladed knife;
Then with a yell they threw o'er his neck the limb-entangling chain,
And dragged him stunned from his dying horse o'er the mingled heaps of slain.
When he fell from the blow the Aztec gave with the crystal-bladed knife;
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And dragged him stunned from his dying horse o'er the mingled heaps of slain.
“There's Sancho there, whom some deemed dead, who saved the banner cross,
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.
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.
“Would I were there, by Jesus' help, or yon pyramids were here,
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.”
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.”
They have fallen now; and, bending o'er their bleeding bodies bare,
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.
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.
“O God! who keepeth vengeance, send thy good angel down,
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.
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.
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Of this horrid feast no dark king's blood can wash away the stain,
'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.
'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.
The tears he shed were not sorrow's tears, no grief that bows the head,
'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.
'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.
“Now, soldiers, on!” he shouted; “remember what ye saw,
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.”
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.”
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |