 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
XXIX.
He hastily strode on—as if he soughtTo lose the lingering traces of that thought,
Which, like the ocean, settling from a storm,
Hath still a fearful wildness on its form!
They reach'd a plain—before them, rose on high
Dark Acapulco frowning to the sky,
Like mounting battlements, by demons set,
To reach the glorious heaven, they grieve for yet.
But where is he, that chill and fearful guide?
No longer moves he by the Spaniard's side,
And, all alone upon the bloody plain,
Girt by the gloomy spirits of the slain,
Who wake the night winds from their ocean lair,
To waft their shrieks of agony or fear—
He stands alone—when past that spirit shade
Nor rous'd a breath of air, nor shook a blade
Or drop of dew from off the bended grass,
So silent, and so sudden did he pass!
39
Of that fierce warrior, struggling, but represt—
And fate-led, back his footsteps he retrac'd,
To that broad plain, with purple laurels grac'd,
And, from among the dead, with gentle arm,
As if it trembled to displace one charm,
Of fearful, but sweet beauty given by death,
Which seem'd to sleep upon her lips like breath,
Nor froze the silk of one wind-shaken curl—
He rais'd the lifeless form of that young girl,
And, with strange care, he bore her from the spot,
So mark'd by death, with indiscriminate blot;
And laid her down upon the swardy bed,
Supporting on his arm, her drooping head,
While with a strange, unconsciousness of care,
His fingers wander'd idly in her hair,
As they had long been taught to wander there.
Thus, at the morn, by anxious followers, found
The savage chief, repos'd upon the ground—
Nor smil'd nor spoke—but musingly, he bade,
By sign, that they should straight remove the maid,
From off the fatal field—nor sigh'd to part,
With her, that hung, like life-blood, round his heart.
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |