Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 81
And far away, meantime, their comrades bear
The prisoner Prince. In vain his noble heart
Swells now with wild and suffocating rage;
In vain he struggles: — they have bound his limbs
With the tough osier, and his struggles now
But bind more close and cuttingly the band.
They hasten on; and while they bear the prize,
Leaving their ill-doomed fellows in the fight
To check pursuit, foremost afar of all,
With unabating strength, by joy inspir’d,
Ocelopan to Aztlan bears the child.
XII.
Good tidings travel fast. — The chief is seen;
He hastens on; he holds the child on high;
He shouts aloud. Through Aztlan spreads the news;
Each to his neighbour tells the happy tale, —
Joy, — joy to Aztlan! the Blood-shedder comes!
Tlaloc has given his victim.
Ah, poor child!
They from the gate swarm out to welcome thee;
Warriors, and men grown gray, and youths and maids,
Exulting, forth they crowd. The mothers throng
To view thee, and, while thinking of thy doom,
They clasp their own dear infants to the breast
With deeper love, delighted think that thou
Shalt suffer for them. He, poor child, admires
The strange array; with wonder he beholds
Their olive limbs, half bare, their plumy crowns,
And gazes round and round, where all was new,
Forgetful of his fears. But when the Priest
Approach’d to take him from the Warrior’s arms,
Then Hoel scream’d; and, from that hideous man
Averting, to Ocelopan he turn’d,
And would have clung to him, so dreadful late,
Stern as he was, and terrible of eye,
Less dreadful than the Priest, whose dark aspect,
Which Nature with her harshest characters
Had featured, art made worse. His cowl was white;
His untrimm’d hair, a long and loathsome mass,
With cotton cords intwisted, clung with gum,
And matted with the blood, which, every morn,
He from his temples drew before the God,
In sacrifice; bare were his arms, and smear’d
Black: but his countenance a stronger dread
Than all the horrors of that outward garb,
Struck with quick instinct to young Hoel’s heart:
It was a face whose settled sullenness
No gentle feeling ever had disturb’d;
Which, when he probed a victim’s living breast,
Retain’d its hard composure.
Such was he
Who took the son of Llaian, heeding not
His cries and screams, and arms in suppliant guise,
Stretch’d out to all around, and strugglings vain.
He to the Temple of the Water God
Conveyed his victim. By the threshold, there
The ministering Virgins stood, a comely band
Of high-born damsels, to the temple rites
By pious parents vow’d. Gladly to them
The little Hoel leaped; their gentle looks
No fear excited; and he gazed around,
Pleased and surprised, unconscious to what end
These things were tending. O’er the rush-strewn floor
They to the azure Idol led the boy,
Now not reluctant, and they rais’d the hymn.
God of the Waters! at whose will the streams
Flow in their wonted channel, and diffuse
Their plenty round, the blood and life of earth;
At whose command they swell, and o’er their banks
Burst with resistless ruin, making vain
The toils and hopes of man, — behold this child!
O, strong to bless, and mighty to destroy,
Tlaloc! behold thy victim! so mayst thou
Restrain the peaceful streams within their banks,
And bless the labours of the husbandman.
God of the Mountains! at whose will the clouds
Cluster around the heights; who sendest them
To shed their fertilizing showers, and raise
The drooping herb, and o’er the thirsty vale
Spread their green freshness; at whose voice the hills
Grow black with storms; whose wrath the thunder speaks;
Whose bow of anger shoots the lightning shafts,
To blast the works of man, — behold this child!
O strong to bless, and mighty to destroy,
Tlaloc! behold thy victim! so may’st thou
Lay by the fiery arrows of thy rage,
And bid the genial rains and dews descend.
O thou, Companion of the powerful God!
Companion and Beloved! — when he treads
The mountain-top, whose breath diffuses round
The sweets of summer; when he rides the waves,
Whose presence is the sunshine and the calm, —
Aiauh, O green-rob’d Goddess, see this child!
Behold thy victim! so mayst thou appease
The sterner mind of Tlaloc when he frowns,
And Aztlan flourish in thy fostering smile.
Young Spirits! ye whom Aztlan’s piety
Ê Hath given to Tlaloc, to enjoy with him,
For aye the cool delights of Tlalocan, —
Young Spirits of the happy; who have left
Your Heaven to-day, unseen assistants here, —
Behold your comrade! see the chosen child,
Who through the lonely cave of death must pass,
Like you, to join you in eternal joy.
Now from the rush-strewn temple they depart.
They place their smiling victim in a car,
Upon whose sides of pearly shell there play’d,
Shading and shifting still, the rainbow light.
On virgin shoulders is he borne aloft,
With dance before, and song and music round;
And thus they seek, in festival array,
The water-side. There lies the sacred bark,
All gay with gold, and garlanded with flowers:
The virgins with the joyous boy embark;
Ten boatmen urge them on; the Priests behind
Follow, and all the long solemnity.
The lake is overspread with boats; the sun
Shines on the gilded prows, the feathery crowns,
The sparkling waves. Green islets float along,
Where high-born damsels, under jasmine bowers,
Raise the sweet voice, to which the echoing oars,
In modulated motion, rise and fall.
The moving multitude along the shore
Flows like a stream; bright shines the unclouded sky;
Heaven, earth, and waters wear one face of joy.
Young Hoel with delight beholds the pomp;
His heart throbs joyfully; and if he thinks
Upon his mother now, ’tis but to think
How beautiful a tale for her glad ear
He hath when he returns. Meantime the maids
Weave garlands for his head, and raise the song:
Oh, happy thou, whom early from the world
The Gods require! not by the wasting worm
Of sorrow cankered, nor condemned to feel
The pang of sickness, nor the wound of war,
Nor the long miseries of protracted age;
But call’d in youth, the chosen of the God,
To share his joys. Soon shall thy rescu’d soul,
Child of the Stranger! in his blissful world,
Mix with the blessed spirits; for not thine,
Amid the central darkness of the earth,
To endure the eternal void, — not thine to live,
Dead to all objects of eye, ear, or sen
se,
In the long horrors of one endless night,
With endless being curset. For thee the bowers
Of Tlalocan have blossomed with new sweets;
For thee have its immortal trees matur’d
The fruits of Heaven; thy comrades even now
Wait thee, impatient, in their fields of bliss;
The God will welcome thee, his chosen child,
And Aiauh love thee with a mother’s love.
Child of the Stranger! dreary is thy way!
Darkness and Famine through the cave of Death
Must guide thee. Happy thou, when on that night
The morning of the eternal day shall dawn.
So as they sung young Hoel’s song of death,
With rapid strength the boatmen plied their oars,
And through the water swift they glided on;
And now to shore they drew. The stately bank
Rose with the majesty of woods o’erhung,
And rocks, or peering through the forest shade
Or rising from the lake, and with their bulk
Glassing its dark, deep waters. Half-way up,
A cavern pierced the rock; no human foot
Had trod its depths, nor ever sunbeam reached
Its long recesses and mysterious gloom:
To Tlaloc it was hallow’d; and the stone
Which closed its entrance never was remov’d,
Save when the yearly festival return’d,
And in its womb a child was sepulchred,
The living victim. Up the winding path,
That to the entrance of the cavern led,
With many a painful step the train ascend;
But many a time, upon that long ascent,
Young Hoel would have paused, with weariness
Exhausted now. They urge him on, — poor child!
They urge him on! — Where is Cadwallon’s aid?
Where is the sword of Ririd? where the arm
Of Madoc now? — Oh! better had he liv’d,
Unknowing and unknown, on Arvon’s plain,
And trod upon his noble father’s grave,
With peasant feet, unconscious! — They have reached
The cavern now, and from its mouth the Priests
Roll the huge portal. Thitherward they force
The son of Llaian. A cold air comes out; —
It chills him, and his feet recoil; — in vain
His feet recoil; — in vain he turns to fly,
Aftrighted at the sudden gloom that spreads
Around; — the den is closed, and he is left
In solitude and darkness, — left to die!
XIII.
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
Escap’d 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
Gaz’d on the lake below. The sound of song
And instrument, in soften’d harmony,
Had reached her where she stray’d; and she beheld
The pomp, and listened to the harmony,
A moment, with delight: but then a fear
Came on her, for she knew with what design
The Tyger and Ocelopan 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 rolled 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 clos’d her eyes,
Shuddering. Suddenly in the brake beside,
A rustling startled her, and from the shrubs
A Vulture rose.
She mov’d 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
Stoopt for the flowers, and heard, or thought she heard,
A feeble sound below. She rais;d her head,
And anxiously she listened 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 shuddered at the thought, and breath’d a groan
Of unavailing pity; — but the sound
Came nearer, and her trembling heart conceiv’d
A dangerous hope. The Vulture from that chasm
Had fled, perchance accustom’d 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 passed,
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
Filled her with more affright, and now she paus’d,
For at a sudden and abrupt descent
She stood, and feared its unseen depth; her heart
Failed, and she back had hastened; but the cry
Reached 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 receiv’d
Dim sense of objects near. Something below,
White in the darkness, lay: it mark’d the 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, O take me from this dismal place!
She answer’d not, she understood him not;
But clasped 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, that yearn’d,
Even with maternal love, to cherish him.
She hushed his clamours, 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 learnt
From her Lincoya, in those happy days
Of peace when Aztlan was the Stranger’s friend;
Aptly she learnt, what willingly he taught,
Terms of endearment, and the parting words
Which promis’d quick return. She on the child
The endearing phrase bestow’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, thee 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
Assur’d and sooth’d him; till reluctantly
And weeping, but in silence, he unloos’d
His grasp; and up the difficult ascent
Coatel climb’d, and, to the light of day
Returning, with her flowers she hasten’d home.
XIV.
Who comes to Aztlan, bounding like a deer
Along the plain? — The herald of success;
For, lo! his locks are braided, and his loins
Cinctured with white; and, see! he lifts the shield,
And brandishes the sword. The populace
Flock round, impatient for the tale of joy,
And follow to the palace in his path.
Joy! joy! the Tiger hath achiev’d his quest!
They bring a captive home! — Triumphantly
Coanocotzin and his Chiefs go forth
To greet the youth triumphant, and receive
The victim, whom the gracious Gods have given,
Sure omen and first-fruits of victory.
A woman leads the train, young, beautiful, —
More beautiful for that translucent joy