 | Cortez |  |
SCENE I.
A sheltered Valley in Mexico. On one Side a Cottage.Enter Teutile.
TEUTILE.
Welcome once again, ye blest paternal bow'rs!
How gladly do I greet ye, when at eve,
My simple labours ended, I return
To share that bounty which benignant heav'n
Pours down on virtuous toil.—
(Shouts are heard.)
What sounds are those?
Again they rise—and now they seem approaching.
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TACUBA.
This way their course they bent. Methought I saw them
Ent'ring the grove which skirts this narrow vale.
OTUMBA.
But there we lost them.—Father, hast thou seen
Two fugitives? Their mien and garb are strange,
Their heads adorn'd with shining casques, surmounted
With shaggy trophies, and their bodies arm'd
With strange metallic coats—
TEUTILE.
I saw them not;
Yet heard I shouts of war, that seem'd to shake
The neighb'ring hills and woods. What stirs ye thus?
TACUBA.
Hast thou not heard, how lately on our coasts,
Convey'd in huge machines with wings, to which
The mighty condor's shew but as a speck,
Arriv'd a pow'rful host of warlike strangers?
Who they may be, or whence they come, we know not,
But dreadful seem their faculties: some bear
The forms of men, yet not of men like us;
While others, monsters of an unknown kind,
With hoofs far-sounding scour across the plain,
And bear destruction whereso'er they turn.
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Of fearful prodigies ye tell, and strange.
OTUMBA.
More fearful yet have they approv'd themselves.
For arms they bear long spears, whose ends surcharg'd
With some hard substance strike with fatal aim;
And tubes they have of yet more dire effect,
Whence issue flames and death.
TEUTILE.
And are their natures
As dreadful as their aspect?
TACUBA.
Sterner yet.
Ferocious are they as the forest tiger;
They seek for gold as if it were their food,
And quench their thirst with blood.
TEUTILE.
If such they be,
And so superior are their means of mischief,
How is't that thus, instead of flying from them,
So eagerly you follow up their course?
TACUBA.
As in array they march'd across our hills,
Some ten or twelve, attracted by our dwellings,
Remain'd behind their host. With fell intent
They rush'd upon us; to our straw-clad roofs
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Nor age—not infancy itself they spar'd.
OTUMBA.
But on their heads their crimes we well aveng'd.
Awhile their mailed coats withstood our weapons;
But soon of those who had oppos'd our vengeance
All fell, save two, whom now we hope to find.
They cannot far be distant.—Fare thee well,
And pray for our success.—Now to o'ertake them!
[Exeunt Tacuba and Otumba.
TEUTILE.
Hide, hide thyself, oh sun! Let not thy beams
Witness such dread enormities.—Alas!
Too true an emblem art thou of our state:
Like thee, forth bursting from thine eastern bed,
We wake to life, and all surrounding nature
Seems deck'd with loveliness and coming joy;
Like thee ambitiously we make our progress,
Now splendid, now by passing clouds obscur'd,
Now our beams shorn by overwhelming tempests;
Like thee at length, our toilsome journey past,
We sink in darkness, and are seen no more.—
Defend me, gracious pow'rs! What forms are those
Hither advancing? Are they men or spirits?
Alas! too sure they are of human sort,
And mortal as myself. One of them's wounded—
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Hither they come—I will retire and watch them.
[He goes aside.
Enter Gonsalvo and Alvarado.
GONSALVO.
So—gently—lean on me, my Alvarado.
ALVARADO.
Alas, Gonsalvo! from this gaping wound
Ebbs the last remnant of departing life.
I can no more—Is there no friendly turf,
On which I may repose my stiff'ning limbs?
GONSALVO.
Here—rest beneath this shade—I will watch o'er thee.
Where in this desert can I look for succour,
For some kind hand to mitigate thy sufferings?
ALVARADO.
Give me some water to assuage my thirst.
GONSALVO.
No stream flows here. Perhaps within yon grove,
Where fresher seems the herbage, I may find—
Hark! heard'st thou not a sound?—Some one approaches—
Is it some new assailant hot for vengeance?
Some Indian yet unsated with our blood?
TEUTILE
(advancing).
Stranger, whoe'er thou art—But wherefore thus
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Can danger daunt thee, wretched as thou art?
GONSALVO.
Thou chid'st me fairly. For a wretch like me,
'Twere better to forego at once a life,
Which holds out nought but perspectives of woe.
I fear not for myself: the stroke which ends me
Cuts off at most some years of want and pain,
And should be welcom'd. But I have a friend,
Compar'd with whose distresses mine are small.
Good Indian! If thou'st ever felt compassion—
TEUTILE.
Art thou not one of those of whom I heard,
Who, unprovok'd, have landed on our coast,
And spread destruction 'mid our peaceful tribes?
GONSALVO.
I dare not palliate our offence: 'tis rank—
But let not now thy vengeance be extreme,
For mis'ry presses on us. When thou see'st
A poor defenceless fellow creature, cast
A suppliant on thy mercy, think oh! think
Of his distressful state, and pity him.
TEUTILE.
He listen'd not to pity.
GONSALVO.
Did high heav'n
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Who should find favour?—As thou art a man,
As thou hast eyes to see, and heart to feel,
Aid me to bear him to some safe retreat.
TEUTILE.
Thou mov'st me strangely—But it may not be.
Thou hast confess'd thyself my country's foe:
He too, who justly suffers for his crimes—
GONSALVO.
We cannot harm thee now; and, if we could,
Thy kindness would disarm us.—Look on him—
He's no one's enemy now—The hand of death
Presses hard on him. I will kneel to thee—
TEUTILE.
Arise, poor youth! Thy pleading half unmans me.
I have a cot, where I could shelter thee—
GONSALVO.
Oh let it shield us from impending danger!
The works of charity are ne'er forgotten,
But, when thou most may want them, will avail thee.
TEUTILE.
My judgment checks me, but my heart prevails.
Thou shalt not perish. I will succour thee.
Assist to bear thy comrade to my cot.
How wan and pale he looks! He gazes on us,
And tries to speak, but cannot.
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Gently move him.
TEUTILE.
Now on—This way, my son—So—bear him in.
[Exeunt.
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