Classic Poem

Merciful God! how horrible is night
Upon the plain of Aztlan! there the shout
Of battle, the barbarian yell, the bray
Of dissonant instruments, the clang of arms,
The shriek of agony, the groan of death,
In one wild uproar and continuous din,
Shake the still air; while, overhead, the Moon,
Regardless of the stir of this low world,
Holds on her heavenly way. Still unallay'd
By slaughter raged the battle, unrelax'd
By lengthened toil; anger supplying still
Strength undiminish'd for the desperate strife.
And lo! where, yonder, on the temple top,
Blazing aloft, the sacrificial fire,
Scene more accurst and hideous than the war,
Displays to all the vale; for whosoe'er
That night the Aztecas could bear away,
Hoaman or Briton, thither was he borne;
And as they stretch'd him on the stone of blood,
Did the huge tambour of the God, with voice
Loud as the thunder-peal, and heard as far,
Proclaim the act of death, more visible
Than in broad day-light, by those midnight fires
Distinctlier seen. Sight that with horror fill'd
The Cymry, and to mightier efforts roused.
Howbeit, this abhorred idolatry
Work'd for their safety; the deluded foes,
Obstinate in their faith, forbearing still
The mortal stroke, that they might to the God
Present the living victim, and to him
Let the life flow.
And now the orient sky
Glow'd with the ruddy morning, when the Prince
Came to the field. He lifted up his voice,
And shouted, Madoc! Madoc! They who heard
The cry, astonish'd, turn'd; and when they saw
The countenance his open helm disclosed,
They echoed, Madoc! Madoc! Through the host
Spread the miraculous joy — He lives! he lives!
He comes himself in arms! — Lincoya heard,
As he had raised his arm to strike a foe,
And stay'd the stroke, and thrust him off, and cried,
Go tell the tidings to thy countrymen,
Madoc is in the war! Tell them his God
Hath set the White King free! Astonishment
Seized on the Azteca; on all who heard,
Amazement and dismay; and Madoc now
Stood in the foremost battle, and his sword —
His own good sword — flash'd like the sudden death
Of lightning in their eyes.
The King of Aztlan
Heard and beheld, and in his noble heart
Heroic hope arose. Forward he moved,
And in the shock of battle, front to front,
Encountered Madoc. A strong-statured man
Coanocotzin stood, one well who knew
The ways of war, and never yet in fight
Had found an equal foe. Adown his back
Hung the long robe of feathered royalty;
Gold fenced his arms and legs; upon his head
A sculptured snake protends the arrowy tongue
Around a coronal of plumes arose,
Brighter than beam the rainbow hues of light,
Or than the evening glories which the sun
Slants o'er the moving, many-color'd sea —
Such their surpassing beauty; bells of gold
Emboss'd his glittering helmet, and where'er
Their sound was heard, there lay the press of men
And Death was busiest there. Over the breast
And o'er the golden breastplate of the King
A feathery cuirass, beautiful to eye,
Light as the robe of peace, yet strong to save;
For the sharp falchion's baffled edge would glide
From its smooth softness. On his arm he held
A buckler overlaid with beaten gold;
And so he stood, guarding his thighs and legs,
His breast and shoulders also, with the length
Of his broad shield.
Opposed, in mail complete
Stood Madoc in his strength. The flexile champion
Gave play to his full muscles, and displayed
How broad his shoulders, and his ample breast
Small was his shield, there broadest where it fenced
The well of life, and gradual to a point
Lessening, steel-strong, and wieldy in his grasp.
It bore those blazoned eaglets, at whose sight,
Along the Marches, or where holy Dee
Through Cestrian pastures rolls his tamer stream
So oft the yeoman had, in days of yore,
Cursing his perilous tenure, wound the horn,
And warden from the castle-tower rung out
The loud alarum-bell, heard far and wide.
Upon his helm no sculptured dragon sat,
Sat no fantastic terrors; a white plume
Nodded above, far-seen, floating like foam
Upon the stream of battle, always where
The tide ran strongest. Man to man opposed,
The Sea Lord and the King of Aztlan stood.

Fast on the intervening buckler fell
The Azteca's stone falchion. Who hath watch'd
The midnight lightnings of the summer storm,
That with their awful blaze irradiate heaven,
Then leave a blacker night? So quick, so fierce
Flash'd Madoc's sword, which, like the serpent tongue,
Seemed double, in its rapid whirl of light.
Unequal arms! for on the British shield
Avail'd not the stone falchion's brittle edge,
And in the golden buckler, Madoc's sword
Bit deep. Coanocotzin saw, and dropp'd
The unprofitable weapon, and received
His ponderous club, — that club, beneath whom
Driven by his father's arm, Tepollomi
Had fallen subdued, — and fast and fierce he dropped
The massy weight on Madoc. From his shield,
The deadening force communicated ran
Up his stunn'd arm; anon, upon his helm,
Crashing, it came; — his eyes shot fire, his brain,
Swam dizzy, — he recoils, — he reels, — again
The club descends.
That danger to himself
Recall'd the Lord of Ocean. On he sprung,
Within the falling weapon's curve of death,
Shunning its frustrate aim, and breast to breast
He grappled with the King. The pliant mail
Bent to his straining limbs, while plates of gold,
The feathery robe, the buckler's amplitude,
Cumbered the Azteca, and from his arm,
Clinch'd in the Briton's mighty grasp, at once
He dropp'd the impeding buckler, and let fall
The unfastened club; which when the Prince beheld,
He thrust him off, and drawing back, resumed
The sword that from his wrist suspended hung,
And twice he smote the King; twice from the quilt
Of plumes the iron glides; and lo! the King —
So well his soldiers watch their monarch's need —
Shakes in his hand a spear.
But now a cry
Burst on the ear of Madoc, and he saw
Through opening ranks, where Urien was convey'd,
A captive, to his death. Grief, then, and shame,
And rage, inspired him. With a mighty blow
He cleft Coanocotzin's helm; exposed
The monarch stood; — again the thunder-stroke
Came on him, and he fell. — The multitude,
Forgetful of their country and themselves,
Crowd round their dying King. Madoc, whose eye
Still follow'd Urien, call'd upon his men,
And through the broken army of the foe,
Press'd to his rescue.
But far off the old man
Was borne with furious speed. Ririd alone
Pursued his path, and through the thick of war
Close on the captors, with avenging sword,
Follow'd right on, and through the multitude,
And through the gate of Aztlan, made his way,
And through the streets, till from the temple-mound,
The press of Pabas and the populace
Repell'd him, while the old man was hurried up.
Hark! that infernal tambour! o'er the lake
Its long, loud thunders roll, and through the hills,
Awakening all their echoes. Ye accurs'd,
Ye blow the fall too soon! Ye Dogs of Hell,
The Hart is yet at bay! — Thus long the old man,
As one exhausted or resign'd, had lain,
Resisting not; but at that knell of death,
Springing with unexpected force, he freed
His feet, and shook the Pabas from their hold,
And, with his armed hand, between the eyes
Smote one so sternly, that to earth he fell,
Fleeing, and all astound. A man of proof
Was Urien in his day, thought worthiest,
In martial thewes and manly discipline,
To train the sons of Owen. He had lost
Youth's supple sleight; yet still the skill remain'd,
And in his stiffen'd limbs a strength, which yet
Might put the young to shame. And now he set
His back against the altar, resolute
Not as a victim by the knife to die,
But in the act of battle, as became
A man grown gray in arms; and in his heart
There was a living hope; for now he knew
That Madoc lived, nor could the struggle long
Endure against that arm.
Soon was the way
made open by the sword; for side by side
The brethren of Aberfraw mow'd their path;
And, following close, the Cymry drive along.
Till on the summit of the mound their cry
Of victory rings aloud. The temple floor,
So often which had reek'd with innocent blood,
Reeks now with righteous slaughter. Franticly,
In the wild fury of their desperate zeal,
The Priests crowd round the God, and with their knives
Hack at the foe, and call on him to save; —
At the Altar, at the Idol's feet they fall.
Nor with less frenzy did the multitude
Flock to defend their God. Fast as they fell,
New victims rush'd upon the British sword;
And sure that day had rooted from the earth
The Aztecas, and on their conquerors drawn
Promiscuous ruin, had not Madoc now
Beheld from whence the fearless ardor sprang; —
They saw Mexitli; momently they hoped
That he would rise in vengeance. Madoc seized
A massy club, and from his azure throne
Shattered the giant idol.
At that sight
The men of Aztlan pause; so was their pause
Dreadful, as when a multitude expect
The Earthquake's second shock. But when they saw
Earth did not open, nor the temple fall,
To crush their impious enemies, dismay'd,
They felt themselves forsaken by their Gods;
Then from their temples and their homes they fled,
And, leaving Aztlan to the conqueror,
Sought the near city, whither they had sent
Their women, timely saved.
But Tlalala,
With growing fury as the danger grew,
Raged in the battle; but Yuhidthiton
Still with calm courage, till no hope remain'd,
Fronted the rushing foe. When all was vain,
When back within the gate Cadwallon's force
Resistless had compell'd them, then the Chief
Call'd on the Tiger — Let us bear from hence
The dead Ocellopan, the slaughter'd King;
Not to the Strangers should their bones be left,
O Tlalala! — The Tiger wept with rage,
With generous anger. To the place of death,
Where, side by side, the noble dead were stretch'd,
They fought their way. Eight warriors join'd their shields;
On these — a bier which well beseem'd the dead —
The lifeless Chiefs were laid. Yuhidthiton
Call'd on the people — Men of Aztlan! yet
One effort more! Bear hence Ocellopan;
Bear hence the body of your noble King!
Not to the Strangers should their bones be left!
That whoso heard, with wailing and loud cries,
Press'd round the body-bearers; few indeed,
For few were they who in that fearful hour
Had ears to hear, — but with a holy zeal,
Careless of death, around the bier they ranged
Their bulwark breasts. So toward the farther gate
They held their steady way, while outermost,
In unabated valor, Tlalala
Faced, with Yuhidthiton, the foe's pursuit.
Vain valor then, and fatal piety,
As the fierce conquerors bore on their retreat,
If Madoc had not seen their perilous strife:
Remembering Malinal, and in his heart
Honoring a gallant foe, he call'd aloud,
And bade his people cease the hot pursuit.
So, through the city gate, they bore away
The dead; and, last of all their countrymen,
Leaving their homes and temples to the foe,
Yuhidthiton and Tlalala retired.