Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World By G. W. Thornbury |
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| I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | No. VI.
THE MURDER OF PIZARRO. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| II. |
 | Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World |  |
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No. VI. THE MURDER OF PIZARRO.
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[This stern adventurer possessed all the courage of Cortes, without any of his milder virtues. His bravery passed into ferocity; he was avaricious, coarse-minded, and cruel. Less decisive than his greater predecessor, and having a more peaceful people to subdue, he would have perhaps failed amongst the warlike nations of Mexico. Pizarro was assassinated in a chamber of his own palace at Lima, a city of his own erection, when in the plenitude of his power, by a band of Chili men, needy adventurers, friends of his former companion in arms, but then rival, Almagro, whose rebellion he had suppressed, but whom he had disdained to punish more severely. Uneducated, cruel, and despotic, he died regretted by none; a sword used by God and thrown aside. In the moment of death, he showed that intense and gloomy superstition which distinguishes the Spaniards, blended with much of the ancient hero. Exclaiming, “Jesu!” he traced a cross upon the floor with the blood that welled fast from his own life-streams, and was stooping to kiss it, when a blow, more deadly than its fellows, severed soul from body.]
In great Lama's streets stood the Chili men, careworn, with heads hung down,
As the viceroy in his pride of state, came riding through the town;
More fit for war's fierce tourney was that scarred and bronzed face,
Than for those mummings of a king, and courtiers' forced grimace.
As the viceroy in his pride of state, came riding through the town;
More fit for war's fierce tourney was that scarred and bronzed face,
Than for those mummings of a king, and courtiers' forced grimace.
He heeds no shout that hails him, no loud applauding cry,
Careless of that approving crowd, he spurs him proudly by;
With a careless scorn he greets their bows, for his palace gate is nigh.
One frown he gave to that starving crew, then turned away his eye.
Careless of that approving crowd, he spurs him proudly by;
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One frown he gave to that starving crew, then turned away his eye.
And rich was Pizarro's velvet cloak, and rich his chain of gold,
That falls upon his doublet and its dark sable fold;
A cruel taunt is graven above his cold stern brow,
“For the men of Chili,” is that badge, that with the bright stones glow.
That falls upon his doublet and its dark sable fold;
A cruel taunt is graven above his cold stern brow,
“For the men of Chili,” is that badge, that with the bright stones glow.
To the cheerful sound of the Indian horn, through the palace gates thrown wide,
Sweep in the viceroy's retinue in their rich and lustrous pride;
But he who tore from the Inca's head the wreath he called a crown,
Cares not for the turning blind worm, that his arm'd heel tramples down.
Sweep in the viceroy's retinue in their rich and lustrous pride;
But he who tore from the Inca's head the wreath he called a crown,
Cares not for the turning blind worm, that his arm'd heel tramples down.
The Indian slave that passes by thinks of the age of old,
When the Incas ruled the sun's fair land, in the glorious days of old;
But far unlike those rich clad men, was that famine pinched band,
No pearls, no gems, could rebels glean from the hasty conquered land.
When the Incas ruled the sun's fair land, in the glorious days of old;
But far unlike those rich clad men, was that famine pinched band,
No pearls, no gems, could rebels glean from the hasty conquered land.
Poor wave-worn planks of a gallant ship, the bravest bark of Spain,
That the sea of death hath swallowed up and yielded not again;
“No barbed spear, no Indian blade, his princely heart clove through—
They strangled him in a dungeon, as you might a cursed Jew.”
That the sea of death hath swallowed up and yielded not again;
“No barbed spear, no Indian blade, his princely heart clove through—
They strangled him in a dungeon, as you might a cursed Jew.”
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Without priestly shrive, that's not denied e'en to a thievish Moor,
They slew him ere the sunset, as you'd stab a captive boor;
And they heaved a groan, that starving crew, when they thought of their murdered chief,
But hate soon followed sorrow, and chased the rising grief.
They slew him ere the sunset, as you'd stab a captive boor;
And they heaved a groan, that starving crew, when they thought of their murdered chief,
But hate soon followed sorrow, and chased the rising grief.
And they drew their swords and waved them, in the hot burning sky,
And fiercer grew their muttered words, and louder grew their cry:
“Shame, that a wretched swineherd's son should lord it o'er Peru—
Shame, that a bravo has the fame Almagro never knew.”
And fiercer grew their muttered words, and louder grew their cry:
“Shame, that a wretched swineherd's son should lord it o'er Peru—
Shame, that a bravo has the fame Almagro never knew.”
“The one eyed chief, Pizarro's lord, was the bravest of us all,
He better loved to stem the war, than rob the Indian's hall;
'Twas his broad gold piece, his well filled pouch, that gave Peru to Spain,
'Twas he that planted Jesu's Cross upon the Sun-god's fane.
He better loved to stem the war, than rob the Indian's hall;
'Twas his broad gold piece, his well filled pouch, that gave Peru to Spain,
'Twas he that planted Jesu's Cross upon the Sun-god's fane.
“Shame! that our backs should bear the blow from a tyrant's mailed hand,
Shame! that a murderer's mailed foot should spurn a starving band;
Though now he's decked with the yellow pearls, brought from the island coast,
We are of as pure and proud a blood as such as he can boast.
Shame! that a murderer's mailed foot should spurn a starving band;
Though now he's decked with the yellow pearls, brought from the island coast,
We are of as pure and proud a blood as such as he can boast.
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“Alas! that Lama's children should die when food is near,
Or pine away when the revel's shout rings loudly in our ear;
Woe's me for the young Almagro, so fit to grace a throne,
Too young to sink to a peasant's grave, unpitied and alone.”
Or pine away when the revel's shout rings loudly in our ear;
Woe's me for the young Almagro, so fit to grace a throne,
Too young to sink to a peasant's grave, unpitied and alone.”
Then up and spoke fierce Reda, and he spoke with a savage frown,
“In God and the blessed Virgin's name, let's cleave the villain down;
Wait for no white flag waving, for mass or holy tide,
But slay him now in the bloom of sin, in the hour of his fullest pride.
“In God and the blessed Virgin's name, let's cleave the villain down;
Wait for no white flag waving, for mass or holy tide,
But slay him now in the bloom of sin, in the hour of his fullest pride.
“Who'll wail here like a maiden, if his heart be firm and bold?
Who'll starve in the sight of plenty—poor when the flood runs gold?
I swear by hell's red prison, who will not follow me,
I'll stab him as a craven in this hour of jeopardy.”
Who'll starve in the sight of plenty—poor when the flood runs gold?
I swear by hell's red prison, who will not follow me,
I'll stab him as a craven in this hour of jeopardy.”
Reda was one, who half a life had shared Almagro's pains,
To save his son he would have shed the life-blood from his veins;
“Better a blow from headsman's axe, than life to ebb away,
Better a blow from spear or sword than dying day by day.
To save his son he would have shed the life-blood from his veins;
“Better a blow from headsman's axe, than life to ebb away,
Better a blow from spear or sword than dying day by day.
“We can but die, my comrades, 'tis best to wreak our hate,
For come what may, be fortune worst, we can but meet our fate;”
Then with the cry of the famished wolf, with a madman's yelling shout,
With flashing blade and blazing torch grim Reda rushes out.
For come what may, be fortune worst, we can but meet our fate;”
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With flashing blade and blazing torch grim Reda rushes out.
“Now, up, ye men of Chili, 'tis the coward sitteth still,
Throw open now the barred door and follow me who will;
Long live the son of the murdered man, the gallant and the brave,
And a shroud for the grey old swineherd, let him reign within the grave.
Throw open now the barred door and follow me who will;
Long live the son of the murdered man, the gallant and the brave,
And a shroud for the grey old swineherd, let him reign within the grave.
“A merry laugh shall fill the air, and the sound of joy shall ring,
When the viceroy, on the gibbet tree, like a strangled thief shall swing;
And he who jeered at starving men shall feed the vulture foul,
He shall give the bird what he grudged to man, and God receive his soul.”
When the viceroy, on the gibbet tree, like a strangled thief shall swing;
And he who jeered at starving men shall feed the vulture foul,
He shall give the bird what he grudged to man, and God receive his soul.”
Loud rang the shout through Lama, none cared the cry to hear,
For love had none for the iron chief, no love, but much of fear;
They hurry on through the broad paved square—alas! 'twere now too late,
One brave man, 'gainst a thousand foes, might have kept that palace gate.
For love had none for the iron chief, no love, but much of fear;
They hurry on through the broad paved square—alas! 'twere now too late,
One brave man, 'gainst a thousand foes, might have kept that palace gate.
Now, flying to Pizarro, comes a varlet faint for breath,
“Arm! arm! my lord, for the Chili men are banded for thy death.”
“How pale his cheek!” cried the dauntless one, as he drained his cup of wine,
“'Tis some fool's dull tale—who dreams of fear, thou little page of mine!”
“Arm! arm! my lord, for the Chili men are banded for thy death.”
“How pale his cheek!” cried the dauntless one, as he drained his cup of wine,
“'Tis some fool's dull tale—who dreams of fear, thou little page of mine!”
63
“I've heard of late, but heeded not, the rebels plotting tricks,
I deemed them but a villain's hopes told o'er a crucifix.”
In rushed a second serving man, still whiter was his cheek,
Chained was his tongue with very fear—“Speak, drunken varlet, speak!”
I deemed them but a villain's hopes told o'er a crucifix.”
In rushed a second serving man, still whiter was his cheek,
Chained was his tongue with very fear—“Speak, drunken varlet, speak!”
Dumb stood he there, his gaze was wild, and fixed was his face,
“Arm, good my lord, arm, nobles all, the traitors come apace;”
And he gazes at the chamber portal, and draws his ready sword,
And points with his finger to the page to arm their aged lord.
“Arm, good my lord, arm, nobles all, the traitors come apace;”
And he gazes at the chamber portal, and draws his ready sword,
And points with his finger to the page to arm their aged lord.
Near came the cries, and nearer. “Search every corner out!”
Through the wide bare rooms, in eager haste, rush in the furious rout;
And the jest that the idle laugher told, sinks to a whisper faint;
The talk of wine and lady's love, to prayer to Lima's saint.
Through the wide bare rooms, in eager haste, rush in the furious rout;
And the jest that the idle laugher told, sinks to a whisper faint;
The talk of wine and lady's love, to prayer to Lima's saint.
Aghast look Pizarro's feasting friends, and in terror and in dismay
They left the half-drained wine-cup, and hurried them away.
“Bar the door, good Garcia, bar out the rogues' array,
Like two chafed lions in our den, we'll keep the knaves at bay.”
They left the half-drained wine-cup, and hurried them away.
“Bar the door, good Garcia, bar out the rogues' array,
Like two chafed lions in our den, we'll keep the knaves at bay.”
Too late—one heart blood drinking thrust, one helmet cleaving blow,
And they tumble the bleeding body to the marble hall below.
They rush up stairs with pike and sword, shouting such words of scorn
As had greeted their ears from the viceroy's mouth, ay! but that very morn.
And they tumble the bleeding body to the marble hall below.
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As had greeted their ears from the viceroy's mouth, ay! but that very morn.
But their shout of joy is turned to rage, for three men keep the door,
They stood like the eager hunters that would spear the foaming boar.
Then Pizarro rushed to aid the guard, in their face his helm he hurled:
“What, ho!” he cried, “ye stabbers, scum of the newfound world.”
They stood like the eager hunters that would spear the foaming boar.
Then Pizarro rushed to aid the guard, in their face his helm he hurled:
“What, ho!” he cried, “ye stabbers, scum of the newfound world.”
Then by his side old Sanchez fell, but no time was that to weep;
No time for thoughts of anguish, no place for sorrow deep.
But still was left fair Pedro, the youngest of the three;
A thrust from the blade of a partisan has brought him to his knee.
No time for thoughts of anguish, no place for sorrow deep.
But still was left fair Pedro, the youngest of the three;
A thrust from the blade of a partisan has brought him to his knee.
And the blood that welled from Sanchez' wound fell on the dying child;
Then fierce glared old Pizarro, and his fiery eye glared wild,
And his sword cleaved helm and corselet, and his sword cleaved mail and targe—
In vain on his breast the arrows splint, in vain the rebels charge.
Then fierce glared old Pizarro, and his fiery eye glared wild,
And his sword cleaved helm and corselet, and his sword cleaved mail and targe—
In vain on his breast the arrows splint, in vain the rebels charge.
And bravely fought Pizarro, though his limbs were stiff with age,
As well as when in the pride of years he fought by the fair Adage.
And he struggled on, that grey haired man, though the blows fell thick as rain,
As well as he did when he bore the cross on Cuzco's golden plain.
As well as when in the pride of years he fought by the fair Adage.
And he struggled on, that grey haired man, though the blows fell thick as rain,
As well as he did when he bore the cross on Cuzco's golden plain.
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“Down with the savage,” Reda cries, “shall a grey-beard drive us off?
Oh! that, indeed, for the Chili men, were a sharp and biting scoff.”
Then, with a howl of baffled rage, he grasps Alverrez round,
And hurls him at Pizarro, and brings him to the ground.
Oh! that, indeed, for the Chili men, were a sharp and biting scoff.”
Then, with a howl of baffled rage, he grasps Alverrez round,
And hurls him at Pizarro, and brings him to the ground.
Like a stone from the sling of a peasant boy, half-stunned, Alverrez flies,
In vain, Pizarro strikes him down; in vain, the rebel dies.
“He dies too late,” cries Reda, and drives through his heart the sword,
Ere Pizarro sank a dozen blades drank the life-blood of their lord.
In vain, Pizarro strikes him down; in vain, the rebel dies.
“He dies too late,” cries Reda, and drives through his heart the sword,
Ere Pizarro sank a dozen blades drank the life-blood of their lord.
“Jesu,” he groans, and makes a cross on the blood bedabbled floor;
He bends to kiss the holy sign—one groan, and all is o'er.
“Shout, for the tyrant's fallen—Pizarro, the lord, is dead,
And now the viceroy's jewelled badge shall deck Almagro's head.”
He bends to kiss the holy sign—one groan, and all is o'er.
“Shout, for the tyrant's fallen—Pizarro, the lord, is dead,
And now the viceroy's jewelled badge shall deck Almagro's head.”
They sheath their swords, but ere they part, one glance they give again
At the body of him who's fallen, at the mighty one they've slain.
And now the robbers pillage the casket and the shrine,
And bear away the Inca's gold from many a treasure mine.
At the body of him who's fallen, at the mighty one they've slain.
And now the robbers pillage the casket and the shrine,
And bear away the Inca's gold from many a treasure mine.
And now the drum and the trumpets blow, to the sound of jest and song,
In a rich and gorgous cavalcade Almagro rides along.
In a rich and gorgous cavalcade Almagro rides along.
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By the dim torch light the weeping wife, the faithful Indian slave,
Lowers the stiff and mangled body into an humble grave.
Lowers the stiff and mangled body into an humble grave.
And none shed tears of sorrow, none bent the reverent head—
None prayed, “May God assoile him”—none mourned for the dead.
None prayed, “May God assoile him”—none mourned for the dead.
The only one from whose aching eyes the frequent tear-drops rain,
Was an Indian slave, who only knew, to curse, the name of Spain.
Was an Indian slave, who only knew, to curse, the name of Spain.
| Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | |