Classic Poem

I

Though his head was crowned with laurel,
And his golden spurs were gleaming
On his boots in knightly fashion,
He was neither knight nor hero.

But a robber chief who boldly,
With undaunted fist and shameless,
Wrote his shameless name of Cortez
In the book of mortal glory.

'Neath the name of great Columbus
He inscribed it — just below it;
And the schoolboy on the school-bench
Learns the names by heart together.

After Christopher Columbus
He will name Fernando Cortez
As the second in the Pantheon
Of the new, the western, world.

To the last Fate tricks the hero!
Yes, our name may yet be coupled
With some robber's name notorious,
In the memory of nations.

Unremarked to sink to silence —
Were not that a better future
Than to drag throughout the ages
Such a name to ours companioned?

Master Christopher Columbus
Was a hero, and his spirit
Was as generous and open
And as pure as heaven's sun.

Many a man has given greatly,
But Columbus gave a world,
Found and gave the vast new world
Which we call America.

'Twas beyond his power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it,
And our chains at least to lengthen.

And the human race adores him:
Those of Europe long since weary,
Those of Asia weary also,
And of Africa no less.

One alone, one hero only,
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus, and that hero
Was the man who gave us God.

He had Amram for his father,
And had Jochebed for mother,
He himself was mighty Moses;
Him I rank the first of heroes.

But my Pegasus, unduly
Thou dost tarry with Columbus,
For our flight to-day is lower,
With the lesser man, with Cortez.

Spread thy gay and shining pinions,
Wingid steed, and bear me westward
To the far, the fair New World,
To the land of Mexico.

Bear me west to yonder castle
That was hospitably given
By the gracious Montezuma
To his Spanish guests as lodging.

And not food and shelter only
Were with readiness accorded
To these vagabonds and strollers;
Presents rich and rare were added;

Gifts of massive gold, and jewels,
Fashioned cunningly, and gleaming,
Witnessed also to the favour
And the kindness of the monarch.

This uncivilized, unlearned,
Blind and superstitious heathen
Still believed in faith, and fancied
Hospitality was sacred.

When invited by the Spaniards
To a feast which they pretended
They were giving in his honour,
He betook him to their castle;

Full of trust and condescension
He went thither with his courtiers;
When he reached the Spanish quarters
Was with fanfares loudly greeted.

What the title of the drama
Was, I know not, " Spanish Honour "
Would have served; as for the author,
He was Don Fernando Cortez.

It was he who gave the signal,
And the king was overpowered;
And they bound him, and then held him
In the castle as a hostage.

Montezuma died of sorrow.
With his death the dam was broken
That had saved the shameless brigands
From the fury of the people.

Then began the awful havoc.
Like a wild and angry ocean,
Roaring, surging ever nearer,
Beat the raging human billows.

True, the Spaniards beat the tempest
Boldly backward; but the fortress
Every day was re-invested
And the struggle grew fatiguing.

Worse, the death of Montezuma
Cut supplies of every kind off.
Daily shorter grew the rations,
Daily longer grew the faces.

And the long and haggard faces
Lengthening looked at one another,
And the sons of Spain thought sadly
Of their Christian home and sighed;

Thought with yearning of their country
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And in peace the Spanish hotch-potch
On the cosy hearth was bubbling,

Thickly studded with garbanzos,
With the sausages beloved,
Little sausages of garlic
Spluttering slyly underneath them.

Then the leader called a council
And decided on retreating,
Gave instructions to his followers
With the dawn to leave the city.

But although the cunning Cortez
Had by fraud so simply entered,
Fatal obstacles confronted
A return towards the mainland;

For this Mexico is circled
By a lake — an island city —
Rush and roar of waves around it,
Proud and strong, a water-fortress;

All its traffic with the mainland
Done by vessels, rafts, and bridges
Which are built on piles gigantic;
Little islands serve as piers.

Ere the dawn of day the Spaniards
Were already up and marching.
Not a single drum was beaten.
Not a trumpet blew reveille.

They were anxious that the slumbers
Of their hosts should not be broken.
(Quite a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamped in Mexico.)

But without their hosts the Spaniards
Had on this occasion reckoned.
For the Mexicans, more wakeful,
Even earlier had risen.

On the rafts and on the bridges,
On the little isles they waited,
With the parting cup held ready
For their guests to drink ere going.

On the rafts, the piers, and bridges,
Ha! the wild delirious banquet!
Blood in crimson torrents streaming,
And the bold carousers wrestling,

Body pressed and glued to body,
Till the arabesques engraven
On the Spanish mail are printed
On the naked Indian bosoms.

What a throttling, what a slaughter!
What a massacre and carnage,
Slowly, grimly waltzing onward
Over bridges, rafts, and islets!

Loud the Indians sang and bellowed,
But the Spaniards fought in silence.
Step by step they had to struggle
For an open space to fly from.

In that seething, narrow passage
They derived but little profit
From old Europe's art of warfare:
Cannons, coats-of-mail, and horses.

Also many of the Spaniards
By the gold that they had stolen
Or extorted were encumbered.
Ah, that sinful yellow burden

Lamed and hampered them in battle!
Not their souls alone were ruined
By this metal of the Devil,
Even their mortal bodies perished.

And the lake was covered meanwhile
With canoes and other vessels,
Where with guns they sat and shot them,
On the islets, rafts, and bridges.

True, they hit in the confusion
Many Mexicans, their brothers,
But they also wounded many
An illustrious hidalgo.

On a bridge, the third contested.
Fell Sir Gaston who was bearing
High the Spanish flag embroidered
With the Virgin's holy image.

And this sacred picture even
Was transfixed by Indian arrows.
There were six of them that pierced it
Through the heart — six shining arrows.

Like the golden swords that always
Pierce the sorrow-laden bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In processions on Good Friday.

And the banner young Sir Gaston
Handed, dying, to Gonzalo,
Who was shortly wounded also
To the death, and sank. — Then Cortez

Seized himself the precious standard,
He, the leader, and on horseback
Bore it high until the evening,
When the bloody battle ended.

On that day a hundred Spaniards
And three-score were done to death;
And they numbered over eighty
Whom the Indians captured living.

There were many sorely wounded
Who succumbed and perished later,
And the Spaniards lost a hundred
Of their horses, killed or taken.

It was evening before Cortez
And his army reached the mainland,
Where the shore was sparsely planted
With a fringe of weeping willows.