 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XIX.
Then grew the Spaniard's brow more deep.More deadly in its swarthy hue;
And passions, tho' they might not sleep,
Were silent to the view!
He would have hearken'd not the tale—
The spoil, so cherish'd, sought for, lost:—
And what to him would now avail,
The labour, blood and wealth it cost.
“Thou hast not dar'd to spoil the shrines
Where all thy gold and silver shines;
That wealth to idols consecrate—
Or—fly, ere yet it be too late,
And drag the river, gallant men,
And your reward shall meet ye then.
Thou savage, that hast cross'd my path,
Hast won, and now shalt feel my wrath;
27
To stay the progress of my will,
Protract my spoils, by idle war,
That could not win, and did but mar:
Now shalt thou feel, to cross the pow'r
Of triumph, in expectant hour,
Is but to win, or slow, or fast,
The vengeance that must come at last.”
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |