 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
THE VISION OF CORTES.
A POEM.
—If the lightning, in its wrath,
The waving boughs with fury scathe,
The massy trunk the ruin feels,
And never more a leaf reveals.
Byron—Parasine.
The waving boughs with fury scathe,
The massy trunk the ruin feels,
And never more a leaf reveals.
Byron—Parasine.
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ADVERTISEMENT
The following Poem was originally introduced in one of larger dimensions on the subject of the Incas, which I was wise enough to destroy. How far I may have erred in permitting the following fragment (for it is little more) to escape the same fate, the reader, and not myself, will determine.
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I.
Once, and the gallant sword of Spain,Oppos'd the fierce invader,
Ere, in the Gothic
Roderick, by Historians, termed the last of the Goths; see Dr. Southey's Poem on the subject. The fate of Roderick has never been positively known. He is supposed to have been drowned in his flight from the field of Xeres de la Frontera, when the Moors made the conquest of his highly romantic country.
Her own base son
Julian, the father of the Spanish Helena, Cava, or as she is sometimes called by the Moorish Historians, Florinda. There is no country so rich in material for Poetry and the Drama, as old Spain, at the period to which we refer, and after. No country, in the details of whose history, so much of genuine romance may be said to mingle—we wonder the field should be so little explored.
When freemen stood on hill and glade,
And blood gush'd forth from fountains,
Where, gallant hearts, her ramparts made,
As firm as her own mountains!
And, conquerors of the tawny Moor,
They seek new countries to explore;
Led by the luckless Genoese,
To lands, beyond undreampt-of-seas,
Lords of the soil at home, the brave,
With idle weapons, cross'd the wave,
Sanguine to reap in foreign lands,
Full guerdon for their steel-clad bands;
While high, to lead the way, they rear'd
The blessed cross, nor danger fear'd,
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A beacon light to death and flame.
There is something even ludicrous in the strange union, which the Spanish adventurers in Mexico, contrived to make of religious devotion and enthusiasm, and their own blood thirsty and ambitious projects. The banner of Cortes, according to Robertson, whose work, by the way, has all the merit of the romance, added to the correctness and general truth of the history, had upon it a large cross, with this inscription, “Let us follow the cross, for under this sign shall we conquer.” The “In hoc signo vinces” of Constantine, may be forgiven, when we learn the character of the Christian Pagan; but truly, it would be difficult to find, in the whole annals of audacity, a similar instance of impudence. The finger of devotion guiding to blood shed and murder.
II.
The chieftain slumber'd in his tent,Thro' the deep midnight hour,
Enfeebled, for his strength was spent
In deeds of warlike power—
The leader of the Spanish might,
Where sleep had stilly bound him,
Lay, ready arm'd for sudden fight,
But with no guard around him.
'Twas he, that dared 'gainst free-born foe,
To win the wealth of Mexico!
On Chalco's height, Cholula's wall,
Ordain'd not by his foe to fall,
The brave barbarian paused, to scan
The features of the giant man;
And, in his deeds of strength, his blade,
The lion-heart, that ne'er afraid,
Leap'd onward, and where'er he flew,
Bore unresisting Fate, to do
The savage purpose of a breast,
Where human feelings lay, represt,
Believed, as frighted back, he ran,
Some demon fill'd the form of man.
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III.
He had been toiling thro' the day—And, tho' victory crown'd him,
Yet, once its palm was torn away,
As the fight thicken'd round him—
Onward, by Guatimozin
This brave Indian, appears in all the characteristics of a hero of Romance, fully worthy of the middle ages. After warring against Cortes, with all the undeviating firmness, joined to the experience of the veteran, we find him, at all times calm, dignified and manly; neither too much exhilarated when crowned with conquest, nor prostrated by the reverses of defeat. The following passage from Robertson, may show this:—“When conducted to Cortes, he appeared, neither with the sullen fierceness of a barbarian, nor with the dejection of a suppliant. “I have done,” said he, “what became a monarch. I have defended my people to the last extremity. Nothing now remains but to die. Take this dagger,” laying his hand on one which Cortes wore, “plant it in my breast, and put an end to a life which can no longer be of use.” Vol. ii. p. 48, 49.
Like gath'ring clouds at even,
The children of the bright sun
The sun has been usually the first object of worship among all barbarous nations, as the supposed, and only visible source of life, light, heat, &c.—but the Mexicans and Peruvians went still farther and claimed to be immediately descended from it. Their altars, dedicated to its worship, were never honored with any thing less worthy than human beings.
To win the wealth of Heaven!
At once, the splendors of thy name,
Brave Cortes, darken'd as they came;
One moment, sunk thy warriors back,
Before the torrent's thundering track;
One moment did thine eagle bend
His sunward gaze, and downward tend;
And thou—thy warrior steed o'erthrown,
A victim, 'mid the crowd alone,
Thy soldiers lost, and thine own blood,
Forth streaming, in impetuous flood,
Not even the chance remains to flee—
But that is not a thought for thee.
Amidst vicissitudes and reverses that would have crushed any humbler spirit, the energies of Cortes, never for a single moment forsook him. Within an enemy's walls, surrounded by men of his own nation, jealous of his power, and pertually thwarting him by machinations and treasons—he rose superior to circumstances, and seemed invigorated by every overthrow.
IV.
Now does their war-drum sound aloud,Upon their highest tower,
Since he, their god of war,
The fearful picture given by Robertson, cannot be surpassed in fiction. “On a signal given, the priest in the principal temple struck the great drum consecrated to the God of war. No sooner did the Mexicans hear its doleful sound, calculated to inspire them with contempt! of death and enthusiastic ardor, than they rushed upon the enemy with frantic rage, &c.” and again, after their victory, they the Spaniards) found that forty of their fellow-soldiers had fallen into the hands of the enemy, he proceeds:—“The approach of the night, though it delivered the dejected Spaniards from the attacks of the enemy, ushered in, what was hardly less grievous, the noise of their barbarous triumph, and of the horrid festivals with which they celebrated their victory. Every quarter of the city was illuminated, the great temple shone with such peculiar splendor, that the Spaniards could plainly see the people in motion, and the priests busy in hastening the preparations for the death of the prisoners. Through the gloom, they fancied that they discerned their companions by the whiteness of their sins, as they were stript naked, and compelled to dance before the image of the God to whom they were offered. They heard the shrieks of those who were sacrificed, and thought that they could distinguish each unhappy victim by the well-known sound of his voice.”
The invader to their power.
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Oh freedom, at thy altar shrine,
Where'er thy blessed stars may shine,
Of tyrants' instruments to thee!
Once more, the elated savage dreams
Of life, land, love and freedom;
And with the rush of mountain streams
Bids their young monarch lead 'em.
Exulting, came their numbers on,
To hail the triumph, more than won,
Since he, the Spanish chief, had bled,
And they, the Invincible, had fled!
He too, their nation's direst foe,
Whose very presence augur'd woe—
Within their pow'r—O! what must be
The living throb within the veins
Of men, who long inured to chains,
Now strike at last for liberty.
The aspect of despair is cast,
The slave is free—is free at last,
And like the unprisoned eagle, gaining
The lost ascent of clouds, where, straining
Each nervous pinion in the flight,
He bears him to the monarch light,
Freedom's own emblem, made for all,
Undim'd by cloud, unbent by thrall—
The native light, so oft adored
In earlier hours, at last restored.
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V.
Is this the sole reward of toil—The long tried toil of skill and power,
Arrested, in its march to spoil,
With the short conflict of an hour!
Is there no pride of nation—none
Of all that chivalry, that stood,
Till life was lost, or triumph won,
While all the Guadalate ran blood!
Shall men, who drove the sable Moor,
Forever, from their native shore,
Taught but to conquer or to die,
And in a school so fell and rife,
Forget their creed and backward fly?
That creed, which gives, in holy strife
A future for a present life;
And takes the cloud that dims our even,
To leave to truth, its own bright Heaven,
Unveil'd in its eternal light,
Before the true believer's sight—
Where Houris' smile and raptures stray,
To win the mortal coil away—
Shall men thus taught to die, to dare
The worst of deaths, with hope to share
That heaven of heavens, which ever beams
Upon the enthusiast's life of dreams.
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When Heaven itself upon them streams—
Lose former fame, and win no more?
VI.
Where are these thoughts to wring them now,Where are the early hopes that fed them,
The Cross's light upon each brow,
That, like a fire from heav'n, once led them?
Dream they, before a conquering foe,
To fly successful, o'er the waters,
Where, trembling with expecting glow,
Sit Spain's own sunny daughters?
Disdain was in that chieftain's eye,
Beyond the ire of battle high,
And, while his hoarse voice rung around,
More stirring than the trumpet's sound,
Bidding the brave again unite
In battle, with the unequal fight,
Upon his lip, scorn smiling played,
Derisive, of the tools he made;
And thus he spake, when, all in vain
He would renew the fight again.
“Now dastards, shall your flight be dear.
That ye do battle, be my care,
And if I fall, be yours to know
The stroke that fells me, lays ye low.”
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A boy, even to that chieftain dear,
Came as his page—where foemen strike,
As in the courtly hall, alike.
Danger, nor toil, nor this last strait,
This bosom twin could separate!
His feeling, time, nor change could dim,
Fear'd by all else, yet loved by him,
To him he spoke—“Boy, raise your lance,
God, send you good deliverance—
This is a perilous hour for both,
Else now, our parting might be loth,
But, I remember me, your oath.
Drive your steel thro' your horse's neck,
There needs no spur, yet loose your check;
He'll leap the rank that girds us round,
And if he fail, repeat the wound—
Then gain, if yet ye can, the sound.
There, ere these dastards may be seen,
Put fire unto the, brigantine,
The fleet with which Cortes sailed for New Spain, was destroyed by his orders, but at a much earlier period than that to which the Poem has reference. The crisis, of the Poem, however, requiring it where it is, I have used the license commonly conceded to the writers of fiction, by which History may be perveried at pleasure. After stating the intrigues by which Cortes prevailed on his men, to adopt this measure, (the destruction of the fleet, Robertson proceeds to say—“Thus, from an effort of magnanimity, to which there is nothing parallel in history, five hundred men voluntarily consented to be shut up in a hostile country, filled with powerful and unknown nations; and having precluded every means of escape, left themselves without any resource, but their own valor and perseverance.” Hist. Am. vol i. p. 414.
Or, guide her quickly from the shore,
And seek your native land once more—
My native land—but not for me,
Without this day's cloud passes o'er,
That native land again to see—
Say not you have beheld them fly,
But, that you've seen your chieftain die.”
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VII.
He bows, but makes him no reply,Then o'er the heads of those surrounding,
His slight made jennet seems to fly,
Like deer o'er western prairies bounding,
When, sudden from the forest's gloom,
Upon the broad savannah's breaking,
Compell'd by inauspicious doom,
The traveller seeks a kinder home,
The one, so loved in youth, forsaking.
Amid her enemies she springs,
Then sudden, as impell'd by wings,
Convulsed by the fatal knife,
She leaps, and leaping, spends her life.
One glance the chieftain gives, and sees
The boy as free as southern breeze,
Unnoted, in the greater prize,
Within their grasp, before their eyes!
And, if perchance, his foemen by,
Beheld a tear drop fill his eye,
'Twere less at this assurance known,
Than, that his followers were his own!
Compell'd, as well as he, to make
A triumph of the very stake.
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VIII.
He fights—the thickest of the fray—His steel hath broke their serried lances,
And proudly now he stands at bay,
And not a foe advances.
“For country, freedom, monarch now,
On! Mexicans, nor cower
At one dark tyrant's vengeful blow,
Within your very power.
The temples of your Gods behold,
Rifled by bigot slaves, for gold;
Your monarchs, children of the sun,
Who gilds whate'er he looks upon—
Lo! now, from rolling clouds of dun,
He rushes forth upon the skies,
To bid you to the sacrifice.
Our fathers' dead—their ample thrones,
Their graves, their palaces, their bones,
Whate'er of sacred, good or grand,
Touch'd by these slaves with impious hand—
Strike for your dead—if not to gain
Your freedom, strike—and not in vain.”
Their monarch speaks, and his, their cause,
Nor in the conflict do they pause,
But closing round the Spanish chief,
His hope of rescue grows more brief,
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The death of each adventurous foe;
Wild as the lion, circled round
By hunter's spear, he still is found,
Tho' sinking 'neath repeated blows,
The sternest, savagest of foes.
IX.
One moment's pause he gains from fight,A moment's glance he casts around him,
Where, hidden from his followers' sight,
The Mexicans surround him.
There is a triumph in his eye,
His lip exulting, curls in pride—
And dares he dream of victory,
Without one warrior at his side?
Perchance, with high regard to fame,
And glorious memory—deathless name.
He feels, that he, who bravely dies,
Surrounded by his enemies,
In death, wins many victories!
But lo! what splendor dims the sight—
Whence is that sky's unusual glory,
As when a volcan flames at night,
From some cloud-lifting promontory!
He speaks—as in that curling fire
His soul hath won its fierce desire.
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Proclaims, even death were triumph now.
X.
“'Tis bravely done, my trusty boy!”The chieftain spoke—unwonted joy,
Burst forth and kindled the dark eye,
That witness'd but his enemy,
With all a conqueror's exstacy!
“Oh! would ye seek your land, brave men?
Why, seek it on that whirlwind, then—
For by my sword, your journey back,
Will find as perilous a track—
There, in that bright, and eddying flame,
Your vessels went—not as they came;
That blaze will lead to victory won—
On! for the Cross and glory—on.”
Each eye was turned, where brightly rose
The cloud, that flash'd with sudden light,
While all the far horizon glows
With hues, tho' dark, yet strangely bright;
A hideous glare on all around,
The yet ascending columns flew;
And Mexico in that hour found
Full many an omen direly true;
While, thro' the Spanish host, there went,
The enthusiast-spirit's voice of heav'n,
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The free bit to their steeds was given.
“Ho! for the rescue, men of Spain,
Ho! for the rescue, and regain
More than the brave can lose, and all
That still attends the warrior's fall,
Who proudly stems the opposing tide,
Your glory, and Hispania's pride!”
Thus o'er the field the signal ran,
And with the sight and sound began—
Each arm, and heart, and weapon true.
The glorious fray anew!
What can the savage chiefs oppose,
To battle of superior foes,
But rude, and ill-directed blows!
And Cortes' name—itself a host,
Regains the ground its owner lost—
His giant form, conspicuous towering
Flies o'er the field, like meteor lowering,
A light, whose brightest shapes, assume
A deeper fixedness of gloom!
What can arrest his path of blood,
Who, in his passion's fearful mood,
His very followers deem to be
Akin to the arch-enemy!
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XII.
“Now is our time for triumph—On!Brave followers of the Cross, and be
The Heaven, ye seek for, more than won,
When thus we crush idolatry!
One triumph now, and future times,
With conquest perch'd upon our brow,
Will half forget our many crimes,
In glancing o'er our victory now!”
'Tis Cortes speaks—and on he leads,
The gallant to heroic deeds;
Superior skill, and more than all,
Recover'd from his sudden fall,
He rushes thro' the retiring flood,
And wades, with charger, deep in blood.
But who is he that stands at bay,
Alone, and stems the advancing fray?
An Indian by his garb—around
His brow, a golden fillet bound—
Within, with many a gem, is set
A rich and sparkling coronet—
Deserted by his trembling bands,
The royal Guatimozin stands,
And stems the current—but what might,
Alone, and taught not well in fight,
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Sustain the wide, unequal war!
XIII.
The boy is at the Spaniard's side,But all that warrior sees, is he,
Who, firm amid the shrinking tide,
Would still be, as he has been—free!
“Curse on these slaves!—'twere shame to stain
My scymitar in such lowly blood,
But that my glutless soul can drain,
At every happy stroke, a flood!”
Thus from the savage soldier, fell
The grimly mutter'd, sentence-knell—
Not his to strike ignoble foe,
Till thousands, felt the single blow.
“Fall back and give them room to fly,
Tho' there are still enough to die—
And ye may keep your hands in play,
Till ye have hewn a wider way;
Then hem these lowly wretches in,
For me, there's braver spoil to win.”
And with couch'd lance and giant spring,
He battles with the Indian king,
One effort more, whose followers make,
The closing ranks of Spain, to break,
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And all is o'er, and hush'd the strife!
The king is on the field, his foe,
Above him, with descending blow;
Before the hapless monarch's eyes,
Swim round the crowd, and reel the skies,
But not with fate, like this, he dies!
The grim-brow'd victor, to its sheath,
Return'd the blood-dy'd steel of death—
Paus'd for a moment, ere he bade
His followers stay the active blade,
Then turn'd his eyes afar, where lay
The city walls, his destin'd prey—
Leap'd on his steed, and led the way.
XIV.
The triumph is complete—the foe,Routed, no longer seek the fight;
And thro' the gates of Mexico,
They rush, as settles down the night!
Victors and vanquish'd—and the din,
Shrieks of the dying, victor's cries,
With more than mortal turmoil, win
Ten thousand echoes from the skies.
Mad with the toil, the throng, the glare,
The glory, and the pomp of war—
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The Spanish soldiers onward press
Among their foes, still numberless!
And ere the day is fully gone,
Mexico is lost and won!
XV.
What should succeed such victory?—Why, wassailry, and laughter, wine,
Shouts, songs from gallant chivalry,
And prayers at brute devotion's shrine.
Drunk with success—the torches glare,
Now light the spacious walls, now throw,
Upon the silent river near,
A deadly and an awful glow.
The palace burns—awake the cry—
The palace burns—the flames are high;
And each infuriate soldier, hands
Some ruddier, more vindictive brands;
'Till in one awful blaze of light,
A ruin in unnatural might,
It curls in billowy seas of fire,
Ascending in a smoky spire,
'Till, toppling down, each heated wall
Is curved and bending to its fall—
The catapult, and down it goes,
Heedless, over friends and foes;
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Send up a mix'd and giddy shout.
XVI.
Will this appease the kindled souls,Of those, who, mad with conquest, deem,
No land that blooms, no sea that rolls,
The proudest in enthusiast's dream,
Tho' bearing native demi-gods,
And born upon a lucky hour,
Can venture with the fearful odds,
Of their own wild, advent'rous pow'r!
The cry is forth—the sleuth-hound wakes,
An appetite, that nothing slakes,
And what shall feed his fury's rage,
What, shall that appetite assuage?
What, cool that fever in the brain?
Which reason seeks to calm, in vain—
What, still that tempest in the breast,
That will not fly, and cannot rest?—
Away—for other victims—bring
To sacrifice, a foe—a King!
XVII.
They've bound a monarch on the flame,The iron, red-hot ribs are placed
Beneath his form, whom crime, nor shame,
Nor human failing e'er debased.
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A demon's fury in his eye,
While calmness, on the monarch's brow,
Bespeaks a fearful apathy.
“A captive, and a nation's king!
If thou wouldst plume a freer wing,
Go, bid thy followers quickly bring,
The splendors of thy favour'd land,
Without delay, with lavish hand—
The gold, the wealth that decks your halls,
The solid silver of your walls,
At once pour forth to greet our eyes,
Or, thou shalt fall the sacrifice,
For, that to idol gods thy knee,
Is bent in low idolatry,
And not to him by whose command,
We come to purify your land!”
XVIII.
There's a splendour 'neath yon cloud,Ye may see the ray of light,
Like a spirit from its-shroud,
Bursting on the gazer's sight!
On the outer edge, like gold,
How it shadows still the dense,
And rugged vestment's every fold,
With a high magnificence.
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Gleam'd his scorn's unnatural glow,
Shining on his sullen mien,
Like the moon, with silver sheen,
On the sable robe of night,
Edging it with wavy light—
And his accents flow in scorn,
Tho' upon the engine torn.
“Greedy adventurer, dar'st thou say,
Thy Gods have sent thee forth to prey
With tiger lip, upon the brave,
Whose land, by thee, is one wide grave,
Where sleep her murder'd sons, her king,
Each brave and generous living thing,
'Till all around is dark and foul,
And made even fit for thee, to prowl,
As fiends in kindred darkness, when at night,
They move, lit only by hell's sulph'ry light!
Seek'st thou the yellow ore, the spoil,
For which, thou'st borne uncounted toil,
Worthy, in better cause, to claim,
More than thou hast, or cravest, fame?
Then know thy labour needless—well
I knew, this furniture of hell,
Had been thy sole regard—and when
I drew to head my gallant men,
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Our coffers found a ready grave;
There with its yellow sands, our gold.
Thro' distant nations shall be roll'd,
Glad poverty, destroy disease,
And lend the needy, life and ease,
But never shall delight thine eye
With its rank, baneful luxury.”
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;
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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.”
XX.
Bound on the flame—with look as calmAs conscious peace and quiet bliss,
The monarch's robe, the victor's palm,
Were, men and nations, toys to this.
And not a shrinking start, nor sign,
Of mutter'd anguish, hidden, deep,
Proclaims that he, of all his line,
Hath been the first, with pain, to weep.
As calmly as in peaceful bow'r,
As proudly as in robe of pow'r,
As haughtily as victor, now
Is Guatimozin's royal brow.
Beside him, on a kindred bed,
Of burning steel, with faggots fed,
His favourite turns, in agony
Upon his chief, his dying eye,
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What it had heretofore, denied!
The monarch read his servant's thought,
And while his high-born features caught,
A part of that enthusiast flame
Devotion feels, but cannot name,
Rebuk'd him with a smile, exclaiming—
His mounting-spirit, nothing taming,
Of its renewed and holy powers—
“Do I repose on flowers.”
According to the Historian, I have here been guilty of a much greater violation of the fact than may well be passed over. Upon the final conquest of Mexico, and before Guatimozin had yet been made prisoner, he ordered all of his treasures, knowing them to be the principal object with the Spaniards, to be thrown into the lake. This it was necessary should be concealed. It was, that this fact should be made known, that the royal favorite, on a bed of coals, turned to his monarch an appealing eye, who sternly replied—“Am I reposing on a bed of flowers.” The favorite persevered and died. In the text, I have no such reason for perseverance, for Guatimozin, in the preceding pages has already told where the treasure has been thrown, and his torture can only be considered wanton, or meant to extort a further confession, as to any residue that might yet be found. The reader is at liberty to believe which he pleades.
XXI.
He died—what boots it how, to name,But, with the Spaniard, rests the shame—
And if, as distant tales have said,
The martyr on his fiery bed,
Spoke forth a fearful prophecy,
Of fate, unto his enemy—
Then, do I ween, the curse was sooth,
Since after-time, hath prov'd its truth,
And age on age hath pass'd away,
And memory of the fatal fray,
Itself grown dark, and yet the bale
Of that deep prophecy and tale,
Hangs o'er the race, the name, the land,
Of that fierce, base and murderous band,
29
The fearful doom, and rise, and wake!
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,
30
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?
XXIII.
'Tis the mid hour of night—the lampIs burning on a table near,
Silence is o'er the Spanish camp,
A silence of mysterious fear.
And Cortes sleeps upon a bed—
Rough for a monarch, not for him,
Who oft-times found a peasant's shed,
Most meet for each athletic limb!
Or, on the roughest peak has lain
His giant bulk, and may again,
In far more quietude than now,
When victory twines around his brow,
The wreath of triumph and of blood,
So sternly sought thro' wild and flood.
No! by the dark and furrowy frown,
The lip compress'd, and mutter'd groan—
The writhing of that sinewy frame—
The sudden burst of well known name
31
The waking thought in garb of pride—
The tossing of the giant limb—
The aspect madden'd, startling, grim—
The close observer may behold,
What, seldom yet, the tongue hath told,
A story, from the lips apart,
The demon gnawing at the heart!
XXIV.
Fear hangs upon him like a spell—A deep, oppressive, deadly weight.
He speaks—his tones are like the knell—
The penal tones of fate!
He starts—cold dews are on his brow,
His hair's erect—his eye-balls glare,
And strange, unmeaning accents flow
From his cold lips, to empty air!
A pray'r is on his lips—a pray'r,
The first, perchance, heard ever there;
And audible, but half suppress'd
Accents of fear are in his breast—
He calls on Heav'n—on God—on all
On whom he once disdain'd to call!—
On all—whom, once, in victory's pride,
The impious wretch had dar'd deride,
And scorn'd the very book, his hands,
32
The manual of the simple race,
Who, born not yet to light or grace.
Ill-fortune render'd to the sway,
Of savage, less refin'd than they.
XXV.
A spirit stands before him on the night,That now, beneath its presence, grows to light-
Vapours surround it—darkness wraps its brow,
And makes it into shadowy hugeness grow—
While silence seems to stand, even visible,
As the dark soldier cowers beneath the spell,
And starts with shudd'ring horror to behold,
The Indian monarch now before him, cold—
And chilling up his blood, into a dense
And creeping mass, of agony intense—
He moves not—speaks not—ev'ry muscle's bound
Beneath the dead weight of the presence round;
His eye-balls starting from their sockets, seem,
The only living agents in that dream,
Tho' not a portion of his form, but finds
Some atom, of that terrible sight, that winds
Thro' ev'ry pore and secret artery,
Making the curdling blood creep sluggishly—
God! what a groan of living death now breaks
From his broad chest, as slowly he awakes.
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XXVI.
He wakes, and in the dimness of that waking,He deems the fearful dream and spectre, gone;
And laughs and trembles, ev'ry fibre shaking
While, from his giant form, the long breath breaking,
Relieves the almost suffocating spell,
That wrought upon him like a pang of hell!
And should the fearless champion be o'erthrown,
By idle fears, and shadowy things unknown?
He is again himself—and stands alone—
At least so deems he—till his sight more clear,
Reveals the horrible visitant more near—
Before him, standing in the garb he wore
Upon the bloody field, some hours before:
The light, the living light of life, was gone,
He stood, a form of life, but made of stone;
Moving no muscle, working no wand'ring look
Or glance, by ev'ry thing of life forsook—
A ghastly whiteness o'er his features spread,
Confirm'd the fearful aspect of the dead—
His sunken eye alone, had shook the soul,
And then so fixed, as if unmeant to roll—
So glaz'd, and glist'ning, as in that short time,
The worm had claim'd its own, and left its slime,
And foul'd the god-head's promise of high sway,
With putrid taint, and loathsomeness, and clay!
34
Which lost, yet wrought to agony, each sense,
Upon the warrior's hand, like blistering flame,
That drove and dried the blood, as there it came
The spectre's long and bony finger fell—
Remov'd not thence, and resting as a spell—
That bound the victim in its coil of fear,
And froze and burnt, alternate and severe—
Transfix'd by horror, as at first he stood,
The warrior gaz'd, with thick and curdled blood,
Nor spoke, nor strove to speak, nor rais'd the hand,
So wont to fearful strife and fierce command,
But all impassive, near the Indian king,
He grows—a cold, unmeaning, living thing!
XXVII.
The monarch-spectre spoke not—in his look,There was a speech his stern lips never spoke,
Commanding, from the living warrior's frame,
As ductile 'neath its influence, and as tame,
As any worthless thing we may not name,
That he should follow—and with silent tread,
He led the way, and swiftly onward sped,
Conqueror and victim—now no more the bold
And desperate soldier, but a form as cold,
And unresisting, in its task of pain,
As if all life had fled from ev'ry vein.
35
Grew into shade behind—their own footfalls
Only arousing Silence, for a pause,
In rapid dream, to spirit out the cause
Of interruption, in his dim abode,
Where sleep, fatigued, continual, throws the load
Of his o'erburthen'd frame, and, with his eyes,
Thousand in number, seeks for, and espies,
Among his visions, shadowy histories!
They strode among the slaughter'd men, who died,
The past day, both before and at their side,
There, pil'd in silent heaps, inanimate—
They fought like brutes, and won a wild-beast's fate—
And as they strode, uncertainly, and still,
The moon uprose behind a grim-fac'd hill,
And look'd, with strange smile on the fearful sight,
That grew more horrible beneath her light—
Passions, not yet extinct, were still express'd
On lips, that tell the struggle of the breast,
The innate war with death, the foeman's strife,
The shrinking, shuddering, from the fatal knife,
And love of turbulent, but valued life—
And Cortes shrunk, that never shrunk before—
There lay a fav'rite captain in his gore,
His tongue lapt o'er his teeth, which in the last,
And fearful struggle, while his spirit past,
36
In dust and blood, that shouted yesterday,
In all the full expressiveness and glow
Of hearts, that see but happiness below.
And many faces saw they, that he knew,
Turn'd upwards to the heav'ns—glist'ning with dew,
That fell like sweet drops of an April rain,
Or, taintless pearls upon the crimson plain,
As if there had been mercy for the slain!
XXVIII.
Why does the Spaniard star?—Before him liesThe boy—his fav'rite page—the sacrifice
To his ambition—for his life and fame,
And here, till now, forgotten—to his shame!
More pale and tender made by death, his cheek
Now wore a spirit's whiteness—while a streak
Fine and quite pure, scarce trickling from the wound
Proclaim'd the death, yet gentle, that he found
No bruise, nor savage blow, from rugged knife,
Had taught the parting pangs of death, to life,
But tender-seeming, as himself, the blow
Was such, as might not well have come from foe
And what does Cortes, at the sight
Of that devoted martyr boy—
Can aught of triumph give delight,
In presence of that deep alloy?
37
Might sure have won a better lot;
Such firmness in unshaken youth,
And courage, love, and all forgot?
And ever thus, while time shall be,
Ambition, blinded by the sun,
Throughout its flight, can never see,
Aught but the orb it looks upon!
He wrung his hands in anguish—clasp'd his brow,
And to his face, came back the swarthy glow,
A native there—revenge, and thirst of blood,
And all the fearful demon of his mood—
Yet, he knelt down, beside the delicate form,
That seem'd a lily, broken by the storm,
Along with stronger ruins; and with hand
Of fond enquiry, sought to gather much
Of hope and comfort from the passionate touch,
Where the nerves trembled, free from all command.
And for a moment thought he, life was there,
And laugh'd in his fierce joy—but cold despair,
Follow'd the first expression of delight,
As moons are swallow'd up, by clouds, at night!
The savage soldier wept, or seem'd to weep,
For once, with sudden, and impetuous sweep,
As if disdaining aught of sympathy,
He brush'd his rough hand o'er his wintry eye:
But yet, reluctant to depart, he stood
38
Then hastily displacing the steel hand
That held the boy's cap, underneath his hand,
He tore the cap aside—long, streaming hair,
Reveal'd, too well, the dead girl sleeping there
In peace, at last—in peace, too lately known,
And only found, and felt, when ever gone.
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.
XXX.
And knew he now, in that sad hour,When death had prov'd his fearful pow'r,
40
Had sunk beneath his fatal blow,
How much the heart had been his own,
Won only, when forever gone.
A boyish joust in courtly Spain—
A time he would not see again,
Tho' pleasure then absorb'd all pain—
He felt the force of those dark eyes,
And, for the lover soon espies,
He fill'd his own with mute replies.
What boots it now, to tell the tale,
Of hapless love, and hopeless wail—
To chide the beggar Fortune, now,
That scorn'd the dream, and broke the vow;
Time, while it robs away each hope,
Can never, well with memory cope;
And love that scorns oblivion yet,
Can never, where it sigh'd, forget.
Immur'd in cold, conventual walls,
The tear of hidden maiden falls;
And not the regimen of pray'r,
Nor all the deep seclusion there—
And not the penance, creed, or vow,
Forc'd on a heart that could but bow,
And perish 'neath the unerring blow,
Could thrust aside the pleasant pain,
That neither heart shall know again!
41
XXXI.
Years had pass'd by, and he, she lov'dBy absence, and by time reprov'd,
For men forget, where women sigh,
And rove, when frailer spirits die—
By high, adventure wrapt, and won,
Upon the distant seas had gone—
And so had fill'd the stirring time,
With scenes, perchance, of blood and crime,
That, thought of her he left behind,
Not often stole upon his mind.
No pleasant changes in her lot,
Had haply made him thus forgot—
Alas! already, much too dear,
His name was ever in her ear,
For he had dwelt in fields of fight,
And kept his fame so oft in sight,
That the faint flame of early days,
Had burst into a mighty blaze—
And love, with newer powers allied,
Beheld the hero's form with pride.
How could that innocent girl refrain,
From love of him, whom, all of Spain,
Beheld the first among the great—
She lov'd, admir'd, and bow'd to fate!
42
XXXII.
One hapless hour—deem'd happy then,She found unbarr'd, her prison-grate;
The keeper of that fearful den,
Withdrawn—she did not hesitate!
A moment gave her freedom—gave,
To be the rest of life, a slave;
For, what is slavery, but to be
Dependant for the spirit's life,
Upon the will of those not free!
She sought him out in fearful strife—
A page's garb, her pass became,
And, with a ready change of name,
Suspected not, she won his ear,
His heart—if heart could still be, where
Sat Pride, Ambition, Avarice—
To these, must love be sacrifice!
It was her fate, and so she bow'd,
And mingled with the menial crowd;
But ever, in the fearful hour,
When trumpets sound, and war-clouds low'r
However fierce did war betide,
That ready page was by his side;
And seal'd without reproach, the vow,
Kept to the last, and cancel'd now!
43
XXXIII.
She died, a martyr to the love,Descended from, return'd above;
Untainted in her purer form,
That, like the moonbeam in the storm,
Tho' swallow'd up, by clouds of ill,
Was a rich, precious moonbeam still!
Oh, never more
Shall blight of sorrow fall upon that heart—
Nor, tear thro' that repressed eye-lid start,
Nor heart's affection from its birth-place part—
For all is o'er
Of trial and long suffering, and the pain,
That, worse than all, hangs on the o'erburthen'd brain,
Too much dependant on the spirit's choice,
To utter forth a voice!
A voice of reason, still to love, a foe,
Too sternly dashing out, with sights of wo,
And tones of truth,
The picture lines of youth!
She died for him she loved—her greatest pride,
That, as for him she liv'd, for him she died!
Make her young grave,
Sweet fancies, where the pleasant branches lave,
Their drooping tassels in some murmuring wave.
And ye, incredulous! believe not, faith,
44
Avail'd not, nor was valu'd by the breast,
Whose spirit thus it bless'd—
No!—he she perish'd for—tho' high-nurst fame
Perch'd with an eaglet's pinion on his name–
And sunny Spain
Valued his worth, and with his honours gave,
Neglect and shame,
The last days of Cortes, may be given in Robertson's own words:—“Disgusted with all success to which he had not been accustomed, and weary of comending with adversaries to whom he considered it as a disgrace to be opposed, he once more (A. D. 1510 sought redress in his native country. But his reception there was very different from that which gratitude, and even decency, ought to have secured for him. The merit of his ancient exploits, was already, in a great measure, forgotten, or eclipsed by the fame of recent and more valuable conquest in another quarter of America. No service of moment was now expected from a man of declining years, and who began to be unfortunate. The Emperor behaved to him with cold civility; his ministers treated him, sometimes with neglect, sometimes with insolence. His grievances received no redress; his claims were urged without effect; and after several years spent in fruitless application to ministers and judges, an occupation the most irksome and mortifying to a man of high spirit, who had moved in a sphere where he was more accustomed to command than to solicit, Cortes ended his days on the second of December one thousand five hundred and forty seven, in the sixty-second year of his age.
Reward of all, who labour for the blind—
His warped mind
Sigh'd for the Indian valley, where the maid
His boyhood lov'd, was laid—
And, tho' his pride of heart allow'd no trace,
Of his soul's sorrow, to o'ercloud his face,
He never smil'd again!
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