Classic Poem

That morn from Aztlan Coatel had gone,
In search of flowers, amid the woods and crags,
To deck the shrine of Coatlantona;
Such flowers as in the solitary wilds
Hiding their modest beauty, made their worth
More valued for its rareness. 'Twas to her
A grateful task; not only for she fled
Those cruel rites, to which nor reverent use
Nor frequent custom could familiarize
Her gentle heart, and teach it to put off
All womanly feeling; — but that from all eyes
Escaped, and all obtrusive fellowship,
She in that solitude might send her soul
To where Lincoya with the Strangers dwelt.
She from the summit of the woodland heights
Gazed on the lake below. The sound of song
And instrument, in soften'd harmony,
Had reach'd her where she stray'd; and she beheld
The pomp, and listen'd to the floating sounds,
A moment, with delight: but then a fear
Came on her, for she knew with what design
The Tiger and Ocellopan had sought
The dwellings of the Cymry. — Now the boats
Drew nearer, and she knew the Stranger's child.
She watch'd them land below; she saw them wind
The ascent; — and now from that abhorred cave
The stone is roll'd away, — and now the child
From light and life is cavern'd. Coatel
Thought of his mother then, of all the ills
Her fear would augur, and how worse than all
Which even a mother's maddening fear could feign,
His actual fate. She thought of this, and bow'd
Her face upon her knees, and closed her eyes,
Shuddering. Suddenly in the brake beside,
A rustling startled her, and from the shrubs,
A Vulture rose.
She moved toward the spot
Led by an idle impulse, as it seem'd,
To see from whence the carrion bird had fled
The bushes overhung a narrow chasm
Which pierced the hill: upon its mossy sides
Shade-loving herbs and flowers luxuriant grew,
And jutting crags made easy the descent.
A little way descending, Coatel
Stoop'd for the flowers, and heard, or thought hear
A feeble sound below. She raised her head,
And anxiously she listen'd for the sound,
Not without fear. — Feebly again, and like
A distant cry, it came; and then she thought,
Perhaps it was the voice of that poor child,
By the slow pain of hunger doom'd to die.
She shudder'd at the thought, and breathed a greeting
Of unavailing pity; — but the sound
Came nearer, and her trembling heart conceive
A dangerous hope. The Vulture from the chase
Had fled, perchance accustomed in the cave
To seek his banquet, and by living feet
Alarm'd: — there was an entrance then below;
And were it possible that she could save
The Stranger's child, — Oh, what a joy it were
To tell Lincoya that!
It was a thought
Which made her heart with terror and delight
Throb audibly. From crag to crag she past,
Descending, and beheld a narrow cave
Enter the hill. A little way the light
Fell; but its feeble glimmering she herself
Obstructed half, as stooping in she went.
The arch grew loftier, and the increasing gloom
Fill'd her with more affright; and now she paused
For at a sudden and abrupt descent
She stood, and fear'd its unseen depth; her heart
Fail'd, and she back had hasten'd; but the dry
Reach'd her again, the near and certain cry
Of that most pitiable innocent.
Again adown the dark descent she look'd,
Straining her eyes; by this the strengthen'd sight
Had grown adapted to the gloom around,
And her dilated pupils now received
Dim sense of objects near. Something below,
White in the darkness, lay; it mark'd depth
Still Coatel stood dubious; but she heard
The wailing of the child, and his loud sobs; —
Then, clinging to the rock with fearful hands,
Her feet explored below, and twice she felt
Firm footing, ere her fearful hold relax'd.
The sound she made, along the hollow rock
Ran echoing. Hoel heard it, and he came
Groping along the side. A dim, dim light
Broke on the darkness of his sepulchre;
A human form drew near him; — he sprang on,
Screaming with joy, and clung to Coatel,
And cried, Oh, take me from this dismal place
She answer'd not; she understood him not;
But clasp'd the little victim to her breast,
And shed delightful tears.
But from that den
Of darkness and of horror, Coatel
Durst not convey the child, though in her heart
There was a female tenderness which yearn'd,
As with maternal love, to cherish him.
She hush'd his clamors, fearful lest the sound
Might reach some other ear; she kiss'd away
The tears that stream'd adown his little cheeks;
She gave him food, which in the morn she brought,
For her own wants, from Aztlan. Some few words
Of Britain's ancient language she had learn'd
From her Lincoya, in those happy days
Of peace, when Aztlan was the Stranger's friend:
A pity she learnt, what willingly he taught,
Terms of endearment, and the parting words
Which promised quick return. She to the child
These precious words address'd; and if it chanced
Imperfect knowledge, or some difficult sound,
Check'd her heart's utterance, then the gentle tone,
The fond caress, intelligibly spake
Affection's language.
But when she arose,
And would have climb'd the ascent, the affrighted boy
Fast held her, and his tears interpreted
The prayer to leave him not. Again she kiss'd
His tears away; again of soon return
Assured and soothed him; till reluctantly
And weeping, but in silence, he unloosed
His grasp; and up the difficult ascent
Coatel climb'd, and to the light of day
Returning, with her flowers she hasten'd home.