Classic Poem

THE storm hath ceased; but still the lava-lake
Roll down the mountain-side in streams of fire
Down to the lake they roll, and yet roll on,
All burning, through the waters. Heaven above
Glows round the burning mount, and fiery
Scour through the black and starless firmament
Far off, the Eagle, in her mountain-nest,
Lies watching in alarm, with steady eye,
The midnight radiance.
But the storm hath cease
The earth is still; — and lo! while yet the day
Is struggling through the eastern cloud, the barks
Of Madoc on the lake!
What man is he
On yonder crag, all dripping from the flood,
Who hath escaped its force? He lies along,
Now near exhaust with self-preserving toil,
And still his eye dwells on the spreading wave
Where late the multitudes of Aztlan stood;
Collected in their strength. It is the King
Of Aztlan, who, extended on the rock,
Looks vainly for his people. He beholds
The barks of Madoc plying to preserve
The strugglers; — but how few! upon the banks
Which verge the northern shore, upon the helm
Eastward, how few have refuged! Then the
Almost repented him of life preserved,
And wished the waves had whelmed him, sword
Fallen on him, ere this ill, this wretchedness
This desolation. Spirit-troubled thus,
He call'd to mind how, from the first, his heaven
Inclined to peace, and how reluctantly,
Obedient to the Pabas and their Gods,
Had he to this unhappy war been driven.
All now was ended: it remain'd to yield,
To obey the inevitable will of Heaven,
From Aztlan to depart. As thus he mused,
A Bird, upon a bough which overhung
The rock, as though in echo to his thought,
Cried out, — Depart! depart! — for so the note,
Articulately in his native tongue,
Spake to the Azteca. The King look'd up;
The hour, the horrors round him, had impress'd
Feelings and fears well fitted to receive
All superstition; and the voice which cried,
Depart! depart! seem'd like the voice of fate.
He thought, perhaps Coanocotzin's soul,
Descending from his blissful halls in the hour
Of evil, thus to comfort and advise,
Hover'd above him.
Lo! toward the rock,
Oaring with feeble arms his difficult way,
A warrior struggles: he hath reach'd the rock,
Hath grasp'd it, but his strength, exhausted, fails
To lift him from the depth. The King descends
Timely in aid; he holds the feeble one
By his long locks, and on the safety-place
Lands him. He, panting, from his clotted hair
Shook the thick waters, from his forehead wiped
The blinding drops; on his preserver's face
Then look'd, and knew the King. Then Tlalala
Fell on his neck, and groan'd. They laid them down
In silence, for their hearts were full of woe.

The sun came forth; it shone upon the rock;
They felt the kindly beams; their strengthen'd blood
Flow'd with a freer action. They arose,
And look'd around, if aught of hope might meet
Their prospect. On the lake the galleys plied
Their toil successfully, ever to the shore
Bearing their rescued charge: the eastern heights,
Rightward and leftward of the fiery mount,
Were throng'd with fugitives, whose growing crowds
Speckled the ascent. Then Tlalala took hope,
And his young heart, reviving, reassumed
Its wonted vigor. Let us to the heights,
He cried; — all is not lost, Yuhidthiton!
When they behold thy countenance, the sight
Will cheer them in their woe, and they will bless
The Gods of Aztlan.
To the heights they went;
And when the remnant of the people saw
Yuhidthiton preserved, such comfort then
They felt, as utter wretchedness can feel,
That only gives grief utterance, only speaks
In groans and recollections of the past.
He look'd around; a multitude was there, —
But where the strength of Aztlan? where her hosts?
Her marshall'd myriads where, whom yester Sun
Had seen in arms array'd, in spirit high,
Mighty in youth and courage? — What were these,
This remnant of the people? Women most,
Who from Patamba, when the shock began,
Ran with their infants; widow'd now, yet each
Among the few who from the lake escaped,
Wandering, with eager eyes and wretched hope.
The King beheld and groan'd; against a tree
He lean'd, and bow'd his head, subdued of soul.

Meantime, amid the crowd, doth Tlalala
Seek for his wife and boy. In vain he seeks
Ilanquel there; in vain for her he asks;
A troubled look, a melancholy eye,
A silent motion of the hopeless head, —
These answer him. But Tlalala repress'd
His anguish, and he call'd upon the King; —
Yuhidthiton! thou seest thy people left;
Their fate must be determined; they are here
Houseless, and wanting food.
The King look'd up, —
It is determined, Tlalala! the Gods
Have crush'd us. Who can stand against their wrath?

Have we not life and strength? the Tiger cried.
Disperse these women to the towns which stand
Beyond the ruinous waters; against them
The White Men will not war. Ourselves are few,
Too few to root the invaders from our land,
Or meet them with the hope of equal fight;
Yet may we shelter in the woods, and share
The Lion's liberty; and man by man
Destroy them, till they shall not dare to walk
Beyond their city walls, to sow their fields,
Or bring the harvest in. We may steal forth
In the dark midnight, go and burn and kill,
Till all their dreams shall be of fire and death,
Their sleep be fear and misery.
Then the King
Stretch'd forth his hand, and pointed to the lake
Were Madoc's galleys still to those who clung
To the tree-tops for life, or faintly still
Were floating on the waters, gave their aid. —
O think not, Tlalala, that evermore
Will I against those noble enemies
Raise my right hand in war, lest righteous Heaven
Should blast the impious hand and thankless heart!
The Gods are leagued with them; the Elements
Banded against us! For our overthrow
Were yonder mountain-springs of fire ordain'd;
For our destruction the earth-thunders loosed,
And the everlasting boundaries of the lake
Gave way, that these destroying floods might roll
Over the brave of Aztlan! — We must leave
The country which our fathers won in arms;
We must depart.
The word yet vibrated
Fresh on their hearing, when the Bird above,
Flapping his heavy wings, repeats the sound,
Depart! depart! — Ye hear! the King exclaim'd;
It is an omen sent to me from Heaven;
I heard it late in solitude, the voice
Of fate! — It is Coanocotzin's soul
Who counsels our departure. — And the Bird
Still flew around, and in his wheeling flight
Pronounced the articulate note. The people heard
In faith, and Tlalala made no reply;
But dark his brow, and gloomy was his frown.
Then spake the King, and called a messenger,
And bade him speed to Aztlan. — Seek the Lord
Of Ocean; tell him that Yuhidthiton
Yields to the will of Heaven, and leaves the land
His fathers won in war. Only one boon,
In memory of our former friendship, ask —
The Ashes of my Fathers, — if indeed
The conqueror have not cast them to the winds.

The herald went his way circuitous,
Along the mountains, — for the flooded vale
Barr'd the near passage; but before his feet
Could traverse half their track, the fugitives
Beheld canoes from Aztlan, to the foot
Of that protecting eminence, whereon
They had their stand, draw nigh. The doubtful sight.
Disturb'd them, lest perchance with hostile strength
They came upon their weakness. Wrongful fear, —
For now Cadwallon, from his bark unarm'd,
Set foot ashore, and for Yuhidthiton
Inquired, if yet he lived. The King receives
His former friend. — From Madoc come I here,
The Briton said: Raiment and food he sends,
And peace; so shall this visitation prove
A blessing, if it knit the bonds of peace,
And make us as one people!
Tlalala!
Hearest thou him? Yuhidthiton exclaim'd.
Do thou thy pleasure, King! the Tiger cried:
My path is plain. — Thereat Yuhidthiton,
Answering, replied, Thus humbled, as thou seest,
Beneath the visitation of the Gods,
We bow before their will! To them we yield;
To you, their favorites, we resign the land
Our fathers conquer'd. Never more may Fate
In your days or your children's, to the end
Of time, afflict it thus!
He said, and call'd
The Heralds of his pleasure. — Go ye forth
Throughout the land: north, south, and east, and west,
Proclaim the ruin. Say to all who bear
The name of Azteca, Heaven hath destroy'd
Our nation: say, the voice of Heaven was heard, —
Heard ye it not? — bidding us leave the land,
Who shakes us from her bosom. Ye will find
Women, old men, and babes; the many, weak
Of body, and of spirit ill prepared,
With painful toil, through long and dangerous ways
To seek another country. Say to them,
The White Men will not lift the arm of power
Against the feeble; here they may remain
In peace, and to the grave in peace go down.
But they who would not have their children lose
The name their fathers bore, will join our march.
Ere ye set forth, behold the destined way.

He bade a pile be raised upon the top
Of that high eminence, to all the winds
Exposed. They raised the pile, and left it free
To all the winds of Heaven; Yuhidthiton.
Alone approach'd it, and applied the torch.
The day was calm, and o'er the flaming pile
The wavy smoke hung lingering, like a mist
That in the morning tracks the valley streams
Swell over swell it rose, erect above,
On all sides spreading like a stately palm
So moveless were the winds. Upward it rolls
Still upward, when a stream of upper air,
Cross'd it, and bent its top, and drove it
Straight over Aztlan. An acclaiming shout
Welcomed the will of Heaven; for lo, they are
Fast travelling on, while not a breath of air
Is felt below. Ye see the appointed course
Exclaim'd the King. Proclaim it where ye go!
On the third morning we begin our march.

Soon o'er the lake a winged galley sped,
Wafting the Ocean Prince. He bore, preserved
When Aztlan's bloody temples were cast down
The Ashes of the Dead. The King received
The relics, and his heart was full; his eye
Dwelt on his father's urn. At length he said,
One more request, O Madoc! — If the lake,
Should ever to its ancient bounds return,
Shrined in the highest of Patamba's towers
Coanocotzin rests. — But wherefore this?
Thou wilt respect the ashes of the King.

Then Madoc said, Abide not here, O King,
Thus open to the changeful elements;
But till the day of your departure come,
Sojourn with me. — Madoc, that must not be!
Yuhidthiton replied. Shall I behold
A stranger dwelling in my father's house?
Shall I become a guest, where I was wont
To give the guest his welcome? — He pursued
After short pause of speech, — For our old men
And helpless babes, and women; for all those
Whom wisely fear and feebleness deter
To tempt strange paths, through swamp, and derness,
And hostile tribes, for these Yuhidthiton
Entreats thy favor. Underneath thy sway,
They may remember me without regret,
Yet not without affection. — They shall be
My people, Madoc answer'd. — And the rites
Of holiness transmitted from their sires, —
Pursued the King, — will these be suffered them
Blood must not flow, the Christian Prince replied
No Priest must dwell among us; that hath been
The cause of all this misery! — Enough,
Yuhidthiton replied: I ask no more.
It is not for the conquered to impose
Their law upon the conqueror.
Then he turn
And lifted up his voice, and call'd upon
The people: — All whom fear or feebleness
Withhold from following my adventurous path,
Prince Madoc will receive. No blood must
No Paba dwell among them. Take upon ye,
Ye who are weak of body or of heart,
The Strangers' easy yoke: beneath their sway
Ye may remember me without regret.
Soon take your choice, and speedily depart,
Lest ye impede the adventurers. — As he spake
Tears flow'd, and groans were heard. The line drawn,
Which whoso would accept the Strangers' yoke
Should pass. A multitude o'erpast the line;
But all the youth of Aztlan crowded round
Yuhidthiton, their own beloved King.

So two days long, with unremitting toil,
The barks of Britain to the adventurers
Bore due supply; and to new habitants
The city of the Cymry spread her gates;
And in the vale around, and on the heights,
Their numerous tents were pitch'd. Meantime the tale
Of ruin went abroad, and how the Gods
Had driven her sons from Aztlan. To the King,
Companions of his venturous enterprise,
The bold repair'd; the timid and the weak,
All whom, averse from perilous wanderings,
A gentler nature had disposed to peace,
Beneath the Strangers' easy rule remain'd.
Now the third morning came. At break of day
The mountain echoes to the busy sound
Of multitudes. Before the moving tribe
The Pabas bear, enclosed from public sight,
Mexitli; and the ashes of the Kings
Follow the Chair of God. Yuhidthiton
Then leads the marshall'd ranks, and by his side,
Silent and thoughtfully, went Tlalala.

At the north gate of Aztlan, Malinal,
Borne in a litter, waited their approach;
And now alighting, as the train drew nigh,
Propp'd by a friendly arm, with feeble step
Advanced to meet the King. Yuhidthiton,
With eye severe and darkening countenance,
Met his advance. I did not think, quoth he,
Thou wouldst have ventured this! and liefer far
Should I have borne away with me the thought
That Malinal had shunn'd his brother's sight,
Because their common blood yet raised in him
A sense of his own shame! — Comest thou to show
Those wounds, the marks of thine unnatural war
Against thy country? Or to boast the meed
Of thy dishonor, that thou tarriest here,
Sharing the bounty of the Conqueror,
While, with the remnant of his countrymen,
Saving the Gods of Aztlan and the name,
Thy brother and thy King goes forth to seek
His fortune!
Calm and low the youth replied,
Ill dost thou judge of me, Yuhidthiton!
And rashly doth my brother wrong the heart
He better should have known! Howbeit, I come
Prepared for grief. These honorable wounds
Were gain'd when, singly, at Caermadoc, I
Opposed the ruffian Hoamen; and even now,
Thus feeble as thou seest me, come I thence,
For this farewell. Brother, — Yuhidthiton, —
By the true love which thou didst bear my youth,
Which ever, with a love as true my heart
Hath answer'd, — by the memory of that hour
When at our mother's funeral pile we stood,
Go not away in wrath, but call to mind
What thou hast ever known me! Side by side
We fought against the Strangers, side by side
We fell; together in the council-hall
We counsell'd peace, together in the field
Of the assembly pledged the word of peace.
When plots of secret slaughter were devised,
I raised my voice alone; alone I kept
My plighted faith; alone I prophesied
The judgment of just Heaven: for this I bore
Reproach, and shame, and wrongful banishment,
In the action self-approved, and justified
By this unhappy issue.
As he spake,
Did natural feeling strive within the King,
And thoughts of other days, and brotherly love,
And inward consciousness that had he too
Stood forth, obedient to his better mind,
Nor weakly yielded to the wily priests,
Wilfully blind, perchance even now in peace
The kingdom of his fathers had preserved
Her name and empire. — Malinal, he cried,
Thy brother's heart is sore; in better times
I may with kindlier thoughts remember thee,
And honor thy true virtue. Now farewell!

So saying, to his heart he held the youth,
Then turn'd away. But then cried Tlalala,
Farewell, Yuhidthiton! the Tiger cried;
For I too will not leave my native land, —
Thou who wert King of Aztlan! Go thy way;
And be it prosperous. Through the gate thou seest
Yon tree that overhangs my father's house;
My father lies beneath it. Call to mind
Sometimes that tree; for at its foot in peace
Shall Tlalala be laid, who will not live
Survivor of his country.
Thus he said.
And through the gate, regardless of the King,
Turn'd to his native door. Yuhidthiton
Follow'd, and Madoc; but in vain their words
Essay'd to move the Tiger's steady heart;
When from the door a tottering boy came forth,
And clung around his knees with joyful cries,
And called him father. At the joyful sound
Out ran Ilanquel; and the astonish'd man
Beheld his wife and boy, whom sure he deem'd
Whelm'd in the flood; but them the British barks,
Returning homeward from their merciful quest,
Found floating on the waters. — For a while,
Abandoned by all desperate thoughts, he stood.
Soon he collected, and to Madoc turn'd,
And said, O Prince, this woman and her boy
I leave to thee. As thou hast ever found
In me a fearless, unrelenting foe,
Fighting with ceaseless zeal his country's cause,
Respect them! — Nay, Ilanquel! hast thou yet
To learn with what unshakable resolve
My soul maintains its purposes? I leave thee
To a brave foe's protection. — Lay me, Madoc,
Here in my father's grave.
With that he took
His mantle off, and veil'd Ilanquel's face; —
Woman, thou mayst not look upon the Sun,
Who sets to rise no more! — That done, he placed
His javelin-hilt against the ground; the point
He fitted to his heart; and, holding firm
The shaft, fell forward, still with steady hand
Guiding the death-blow on.
So in the land
Madoc was left sole Lord; and far away
Yuhidthiton led forth the Aztecas,
To spread in other lands Mexitli's name,
And rear a mightier empire, and set up
Again their foul idolatry; till Heaven,
Making blind Zeal and bloody Avarice
Its ministers of vengeance, sent among them
The heroic Spaniard's unrelenting sword.