Classic Poem

As now the rites were ended, Caradoc
Came from the ships, leading an Azteca
Guarded and bound. Prince Madoc, said the Bard,
Lo! the first captive of our arms I bring.
Alone, beside the river I had stray'd,
When, from his lurking-place, the savage hurl'd
A javelin. At the rustle of the reeds,
From whence the blow was aim'd, I turn'd in time,
And heard it whizz beside me. Well it was,
That from the ships they saw and succor'd me;
For, subtle as a serpent in my grasp,
He seemed all joint and flexure; nor had I
Armor to ward, nor weapon to offend,
To battle all unused and unprepared;
But I, too, here upon this barbarous land,
Like Elmur and like Aronan of old,
Must lift the ruddy spear.
This is no day
For vengeance, answered Madoc, else his deed
Had met no mercy. Freely let him go!
Perchance the tidings of our triumph here
May yet reclaim his country. — Azteca,
Go, let your Pabas know that we have crush'd
Their complots here; beneath our righteous sword
The Priest and his false Deity have fallen;
The idols are consumed, and, in their stead,
The emblems of our holy faith set up,
Whereof the Hoamen have this day been made
Partakers. Say to Aztlan, when she, too,
Will make her temples clean, and put away
Her foul abominations, and accept
The Christian Cross, that Madoc then accords
Forgiveness for the past, and peace to come.
This better part let her, of her free-will
And wisdom, choose in time.
Till Madoc spake,
The captive reckless of his peril stood,
Gazing with resolute and careless eye,
As one in whom the lot of life or death
Moved neither fear nor feeling; but that eye
Now sparkling with defiance, — Seek ye peace?
He cried: O weak and woman-hearted man!
Already wouldst thou lay the sword to rest?
Not with the burial of the sword this strife
Must end, for never doth the Tree of Peace
Strike root and flourish, till the strong man's hand
Upon his enemy's grave hath planted it.
Come ye to Aztlan then in quest of peace?
Ye feeble souls, if that be what ye seek,
Fly hence! our Aztlan suffers on her soil
No living stranger.
Do thy bidding, Chief!
Calmly Cadwallon answered. To her choice
Let Aztlan look, lest what she now reject
In insolence of strength, she take upon her,
In sorrow, and in suffering, and in shame,
By strong compulsion, penitent too late.
Thou hast beheld our ships with gallant men
Freighted, a numerous force, — and for our arms, —
Surely thy nation hath acquired of them
Disastrous knowledge.
Curse upon your arms!
Exclaim'd the savage: — Is there one among you
Dare lay that cowardly advantage by,
And meet me, man to man, in honest strife?
That I might grapple with him, weaponless,
On yonder rock, breast against breast, fair force
Of limb, and breath, and blood, — till one, or both,
Dash'd down the shattering precipice, should feed
The mountain eagle! — Give me, I beseech you,
That joy!
As wisely, said Cynetha's son,
Thy foe might challenge thee, and bid thee let
Thy strong right hand hang idle in the fray,
That so his weakness with thy strength might cope
In equal battle! — Not in wrongful war,
The tyrants of our weaker brethren,
Wield we these dreadful arms, — but when assail'd
By fraud and force, when call'd upon to aid
The feeble and oppressed, shall we not
Then put our terrors forth, and thunder-strike
The guilty?
Silently the Savage heard;
Joy brighten'd in his eyes, as they unloosed
His bonds; he stretched his arms at length, to feel
His liberty, and like a greyhound then
Slipp'd from the leash, he bounded o'er the hills.
What was from early morning till noon day
The steady travel of a well-girt man,
He with fleet feet and unfatiguable,
In three short hours hath traversed; in the lake
He plunged, now shooting forth his pointed arms,
Arrow-like darting on; recumbent now,
Forces with springing feet his easier way;
Then with new speed, as freshen'd by repose,
Again he breasts the water. On the shore
Of Aztlan now he stands, and breathes at will,
And wrings his dripping locks; then through the gate
Pursued his way.
Green garlands deck the gate;
The door-posts and the lintels hung with wreaths;
Gay are the temples with green boughs affix'd;
The door-posts and the lintels hung with wreaths;
The fire of sacrifice, with flames bedimm'd,
Burns in the sun-light, pale; the victims wait
Around, impatient of their death delay'd.
The Priest, before Tezcalipoca's shrine,
Watches the maize-strown threshold, to announce
The footsteps of the God; for this the day,
When to his favor'd city he vouchsafes
His annual presence, and, with unseen feet,
Imprints the maize-strown threshold; follow'd soon
By all whose altars with eternal fires
Aztlan illumed, and fed with human blood; —
Mexitli, woman-born, who from the womb,
Child of no mortal sire, leap'd terrible,
The arm'd avenger of his mother's fame;
And he whose will the subject winds obey,
Quetzalcoal; and Tlaloc, Water-God,
And all the host of Deities, whose power
Requites with bounty Aztlan's pious zeal,
Health and rich increase giving to her sons,
And withering in the war her enemies.
So taught the Priests; and therefore were the gates
Green-garlanded, the temples green with box
The door-posts and the lintels hung with wrear
And yonder victims, ranged around the fire,
Are destin'd, with the steam of sacrifice,
To greet their dreadful coming.
With the train
Of warrior Chiefs Coanacotzin stood,
That when the Priest proclaim'd the enter'd God
His lips before the present Deity
Might pour effectual prayer. The assembled Chorus
Saw Tlalala approach, more welcome now,
As one whose absence from the appointed rites
Had waken'd fear and wonder. — Think not ve,
The youth exclaim'd, careless impiety
Could this day lead me wandering. I went forth
To dip my javelin in the Strangers' blood
A sacrifice, methought, our Gods had loved
To scent, and sooner hasten'd to enjoy.
I fail'd, and fell a prisoner; but their fear
Released me — coward fear, or childish hope
That, like Yuhidthiton, I might become
Their friend, and merit chastisement from Heaven
Pleading the Strangers' cause. They bade me,
And proffer peace. — Chiefs, were it possible
That tongue of mine could win you to that shame
Out would I pluck the member, though my soul
Followed its bloody roots. The Stranger finds
No peace in Aztlan, but the peace of death!

'Tis bravely said! Yuhidthiton replied,
And fairly mayst thou boast, young Tlalala,
For thou art brave in battle. Yet 'twere well
If that same fearless tongue were taught to chack
Its boyish license now. No law forbade
Our friendship with the Stranger, when my voles
Pleaded for proffered peace; that fault I shared
In common with the King, and with the Chiefs,
The Pabas, and the People, none foreseeing
Danger or guilt; but when at length the Gods
Made evident their wrath in prodigies,
I yielded to their manifested will
My prompt obedience. — Bravely hast thou said,
And brave thou art, young Tiger of the War!
But thou hast dealt with other enemies
Than these impenetrable men, — with foes,
Whose conquered Gods lie idle in their chains,
And with tame weakness brook captivity.
When thou hast met the Strangers in the fight,
And in the doings of that fight outdone
Yuhidthiton, revile him then for one
Slow to defend his country and his faith;
Till then, with reverence, as beseems thy youth
Respect thou his full fame!
I wrong it not!
I wrong it not! cried the young Azteca;
But truly, as I hope to equal it,
Honor thy well-earn'd glory. — But this peace
Renounce it! — say that it shall never be! —
Never, — as long as there are Gods in Heaven,
Or men in Aztlan!
That, the King replied,
The Gods themselves have answer'd. Never
By holier ardor were our countrymen
Possess'd; peace-offerings of repentance fill
The temple courts; from every voice ascends
The contrite prayer; daily the victim's heart
Sends its propitiatory steam to Heaven;
And if the aid divine may be procured
By the most dread solemnities of faith,
And rigor of severest penitence,
Soon shall the present influence strengthen us,
And Aztlan be triumphant.
While they spake,
The ceaseless sound of song and instrument
Rung through the air, now rising like the voice
Of angry ocean, now subsiding soft,
As when the breeze of evening dies away.
The horn, and shrill-toned pipe, and drum, that gave
Its music to the hand, and hollow'd wood,
Drum-like, whose thunders, ever and anon,
Commingling with the sea-shell's spiral roar,
Closed the full harmony. And now the eve
Past on, and, through the twilight visible,
The frequent fire-flies' brightening beauties shone.
Anxious and often now the Priest inspects
The maize-strown threshold; for the wonted hour
Was come, and yet no footstep of the God!
More radiant now the fire of sacrifice,
Fed to full fury, blazed; and its red smoke
Imparted to the darker atmosphere
Such obscure light, as, o'er Vesuvio seen,
Or pillared upon Etna's mountain-head,
Makes darkness dreadful. In the captives' cheeks
Then might a livid paleness have been seen,
And wilder terror in their ghastly eyes,
Expecting momently the pang of death.
Soon in the multitude a doubt arose,
Which none durst mention, lest his neighbor's fears,
Divulged, should strengthen his; — the hour was past,
And yet no foot had mark'd the sprinkled maize!