 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXII.
The monarch died—his people fellBeneath the fetters, link'd too well;
And Freedom, led by Ignorance,
Tho' seeking oft to burst the spell,
Ne'er found complete deliverance.
In Mexico the victors rest,
A hated, fear'd, unsought for guest,
On laurels, which, no longer white,
Shed purple blood-drops on the sight.
And silence reigns, where nought is peace—
Ambition sleeps not—men may cease
Their path of violence and blood,
But only want the fretful mood,
Of greedy avarice, or the thirst
Of that supremacy accurst,
Which perils honest pride and name,
And finds, at best, a doubtful fame.
Does Cortes slumber in his tent,
Now that the force of war is spent,
And freemen feel their chains no more,
Or feeling, dare not, well deplore,
The loss of birthright prized of yore—
As if thy pure and sacred glow,
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Say, does he slumber—is his sleep
Quiet and grateful, as the deep
Refreshing slumbers of the brave,
Who spill their blood on land and wave,
Opposed to a despotic throne,
At Freedom's sacred call alone?
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |