Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 83
So fast, and on the helmet and the shield,
On the strong corselet and the netted mail,
So innocent they fell. But not in vain
The bowmen of Deheubarth sent, that day,
Their iron bolts abroad: those violent deaths
Descended on the naked multitude;
And through the chieftain’s quilted gossampine,
Through feathery breastplate and effulgent gold,
They reached the life.
But soon no interval
For archer’s art was left, nor scope for flight
Of stone from whirling sling. Both hosts, alike
Impatient for the proof of war, press on:
The Aztecas, to shun the arrowy storm;
The Cymry, to release their Lord, or heap
Aztlan in ruins, for his monument.
Spear against spear, and shield to shield, and breast
To breast, they met; equal in force of limb
And strength of heart, in resolute resolve,
And stubborn effort of determin’d wrath:
The few, advantaged by their iron mail;
The weaklier, arm’d, of near retreat assur’d
And succor close at hand, in tenfold troops
Their foemen overnumbering. And of all
That mighty multitude, did every man
Of either host, alike inspir’d by all
That stings to will and strengthens to perform,
Then put forth all his power; for well they knew
Aztlan that day must triumph or must fall.
Then sword and mace on helm and buckler rang,
And hurtling javelins whirr’d along the sky.
Nor, when they hurl’d the javelin, did the sons
Of Aztlan, prodigal of weapons, loose
The lance, to serve them for no second stroke:
A line of ample measure still retained
The missile shaft; and, when its blow was spent,
Swiftly the dexterous spearman coil’d the string,
And sped again the artificer of death.
Rattling, like summer hailstones, they descend,
But from the Britons’ iron panoply,
Baffled and blunted, fell; nor more avail’d
The stony falchion there, whose broken edge
Inflicts no second wound; nor profited,
On the strong buckler or the crested helm,
The knotty club; though fast, in blinding showers,
Those javelins fly, those heavy weapons fall
With stunning weight. Meantime, with wonted strength,
The men of Gwyneth through their fenceless foes
Those lances thrust, whose terrors had so oft
Affray’d the Saxons, and whose home-driven points
So oft had pierced the Normen’s knightly arms.
Little did then his pomp of plumes bestead
The Azteca, or glittering pride of gold,
Against the tempered sword; little his casque,
Gay with its feathery coronal, or drest
In graven terrors, when the Briton’s hand
Drove in through helm and head the spiked mace,
Or swung its iron weights with shattering sway,
Which, where they struck, destroy’d. Beneath those arms
The men of Aztlan fell; and whoso dropt,
Dead or disabled, him his comrades bore
Away, with instant caution, lest the sight
Of those whom they had slaughter’d might inspire
The foe with hope and courage. Fast they fell,
And fast were resupplied, man after man
Succeeding to the death. Nor in the town
Did how the sight of their slain countrymen,
Momentarily carried in and piled in heaps,
Awake one thought of fear. Hark! through the streets
Of Aztlan, how, from house to house and tower
To tower, reiterate, Paynalton’s name
Calls all her sons to battle! at whose name
All must go forth, and follow to the field
The Leader of the Armies of the Gods,
Whom, in his unseen power, Mexitli now
Sends out to lead his people. They, in crowds,
Throng for their weapons to the House of Arms,
Beneath their guardian Deity preserv’d
Through years of peace; and there the Pabas stood
Within the temple-court, and dealt around
The ablution of the Stone of Sacrifice,
Bidding them, with the holy beverage,
Imbibe diviner valor, strength of arm
Not to be wearied, hope of victory,
And certain faith of endless joy in Heaven,
Their sure reward. — Oh, happy, cried the Priests,
Your brethren who have fallen! already they
Have joined the company of blessed souls;
Already they, with song and harmony,
And in the dance of beauty, are gone forth,
To follow down his western path of light,
Yon Sun, the Prince of Glory, from the world
Retiring to the Palace of his rest.
Oh, happy they who for their country’s cause,
And for their Gods, shall die the brave man’s death!
Them will their country consecrate with praise,
Them will the Gods reward! — They heard the Priests
Intoxicate, and from the gate swarmed out
Tumultuous to the fight of martyrdom.
But when Cadwallon every moment saw
The enemies increase, and with what rage
Of drunken valor to the fight they rush’d,
He, against that impetuous attack,
As best he could, providing, form’d the troops
Of Britain into one collected mass:
Three equal sides it offer’d to the foe,
Close and compact; no multitude could break
The condens’d strength; its narrow point prest on,
Entering the throng’s resistance, like a wedge,
Still from behind impell’d. So, thought the Chief,
Likeliest the gates of Aztlan might be gain’d,
And Hoel and the Prince preserved, if yet
They were among mankind. Nor could the force
Of hostile thousands break that strength condens’d,
Against whose iron sides the stream of war
Rolled unavailing, as the ocean waves,
Which, idly round some insulated rock
Foam furious, warning with their silvery smoke
The mariner far off. Nor could the point
Of that compacted body, though it bore
Right on the foe, and with united force
Pressed on to enter, through the multitude
Win now its difficult way; as where the sea
Pours through some strait its violent waters, swoln
By inland fresh, vainly the oarmen there
With all their weight and strength essay to drive.
Their galley through the pass, the stress and strain
Availing scarce to stem the impetuous stream.
And, hark! above the deafening din of fight
Another shout, heard like the thunder-peal,
Amid the war of winds! Lincoya comes,
Leading the mountain-dwellers. From the shock
Aztlan recoil’d. And now a second troop
Of Britons to the town advanced, for war
Impatient and revenge. Cadwallon these,
With tidings of their gallant Prince enthrall’d,
Had summoned from the ships. That dreadful tale
Roused them to fury. Not a man was left
To guard the fleet; for who could have endur’d
That idle duty? who could have endur’d
The long, inactive, miserable hours,
And hope and expectation, and the rage
Of maddening anguish? Ririd led them on;
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In whom a brother’s love had call’d not up
More spirit-stirring pain than trembled now
In every British heart, so dear to all
Was Madoc.On they came; and Aztlan then
Had fled appall’d; but in that dangerous hour
Her faith preserv’d her. From the gate, her Priests
Rushed desperate out, and to the foremost rank
Forced their wild way, and fought with martyr zeal.
Through all the host contagious fury spread;
Nor had the sight that hour enabled them
To mightier efforts, bad Mexitli, clad
In all his imaged terrors, gone before
Their way, and driven upon his enemies
His giant club destroying. Then more fierce
The conflict grew; the din of arms, the yell
Of savage rage, the shriek of agony,
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguish’d horrors; while the Sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain’s far verge,
Shed o’er the quiet hills his fading light.
XVI.
Silent and solitary is thy vale,
Caermadoc, and how melancholy now
That solitude and silence! Broad noonday,
And not a sound of human life is there!
The fisher’s net, abandoned in his haste,
Sways idly in the waters; in the tree,
Which its last stroke had pierced, the hatchet hangs;
The birds, beside the mattock and the spade,
Hunt in the new-turned mould, and fearlessly
Fly through the cage-work of the imperfect wall,
Or through the vacant dwelling’s open door
Pass and repass secure.
In Madoc’s house,
And on his bed of reeds, Goervyl lies,
Her face toward the ground. She neither weeps
Nor sighs, nor groans; too strong her agony
For outward sign of anguish, and for prayer
Too hopeless was the ill; and though, at times,
The pious exclamation passed her lips,
Thy will be done! yet was that utterance
Rather the breathing of a broken heart
Than of a soul resign’d. Mervyn, beside,
Hangs over his dear mistress silently,
Having no hope or comfort to bestow,
Nor aught but sobs and unavailing tears.
The women of Caermadoc, like a flock
Collected in their panic, stand around
The house of their lost leader; and they, too,
Are mute in their despair. Llaian alone
Is absent; wildly hath she wander’d forth
To seek her child; and such the general woe,
That none kath mark’d her absence. Yet have they,
Though unprotected thus, no selfish fear:
The sudden evil had destroy’d all thought,
All sense, of present danger to themselves,
All foresight.
Yet new terrors! Malinal,
Panting with speed, bursts in, and takes the arms
Of Madoc down. Goervyl, at that sound,
Started in sudden hope; but, when she saw
The Azteca, she utter’d a faint scream
Of wrongful fear, remembering not the proofs
Of his tried truth, nor recognizing aught
In those known features save their hostile hue.
But he, by worser fear abating soon
Her vain alarm, exclaimed, I saw a band
Of Hoamen coming up the straits, for ill,
Besure, for Amalahta leads them on.
Buckle this harness on, that, being armed,
I may defend the entrance.
Scarce had she
Fastened the breastplate with her trembling hands,
When, flying from the sight of men in arms,
The women crowded in. Hastily he seiz’d
The shield and spear, and on the threshold took
His stand; but, wakened now to provident thought,
Goervyl, following, helmed him. There was now
No time to gird the baldric on: she held
Her brother’s sword, and bade him look to her
For prompt supply of weapons; in herself
Being resolv’d not idly to abide,
Nor unprepared of hand or heart to meet,
The issue of the danger, nor to die
Reluctant now.
Rightly had they divin’d
The Hoaman’s felon purpose. When he heard
The fate of Madoc, from his mother’s eye
He mask’d his secret joy, and took his arms,
And to the rescue, with the foremost band,
Set forth. But soon, upon the way, he told
The associates of his crime, that now their hour
Of triumph was arriv’d; Caermadoc, left
Defenceless, would become, with all its wealth,
The spoilers’ easy prey, — raiment and arms
And iron; skins of that sweet beverage,
Which to a sense of its own life could stir
The joyful blood; the women, above all,
Whom to the forest they might bear away,
To be their slaves, if so their pleasure was;
Or, yielding them to Aztlan, for such prize
Receive a royal guerdon. Twelve there were,
Long leagued with him in guilt, who turn’d aside.
And they have reached Caermadoc now, and now
Rush onward where they see the women fly;
When, on the threshold, clad in Cimbric arms,
And with long lance protended, Malinal
Rebuffs them from the entrance. At that sight
Suddenly quail’d, they stood as midnight thieves
Who find the master waking; but ere long,
Gathering assured courage, as they saw
No other guard, press’d forward, and essay’d
To turn his spear aside. Its steady point,
True to the impelling strength, held on, and thrust
The foremost through the breast, and breath and blood
Follow’d the re-drawn shaft. Nor seem’d the strife
Unequal now, though with their numbers they
Beleagur’d in half-ring the door, where he,
The sole defender, stood. From side to side
So well and swiftly did he veer the lance,
That every enemy beheld its point
Aimed at himself direct. But chief on one
Had Malinal his deadly purpose fix’d,
On Armalahta; by his death to quell
The present danger, and cut off the root
Of many an evil, certain else to spring
From that accursed stock. On him his eye
Turne’d with more eager wilfulness, and dwelt
With keener ken; and now, with sudden step
Bending his body on, at him he drives
The meditated blow: but that ill Prince,
As chiefly sought, so chiefly fearing, swerv’d
Timely aside; and, ere the Azteca
Recover’d from the frustrate aim, the spear
Was seiz’d, and from his hold by stress and weight
Of numbers wrench’d. He, facing still the foe,
And holding at arm’s length the target, put back
His hand, and call’d Goervyl, and from her
Received the sword; — in time, for the enemy
Pressed on so near, that, having now no scope
To raise his arm, he drove the blade straight on.
It enter’d at the mouth of one who stood
With face aslant, and glanced along the teeth,
Through to the ear; then, slivering downward, left
The cheek-flap dangling. He, in that same point
Of time, as if a single impulse gave
Birth to the double action, dash’d his shi
eld
Against another’s head, with so fierce swing
And sway of strength, that this third enemy
Fell at his feet. Astounded by such proof
Of prowess, and by unexpected loss
Dismay’d, the foe gave back, beyond the reach
Of his strong arm; and there awhile they stood,
Beholding him at bay, and counselling
How best to work their vengeance upon him,
Their sole opponent. Soon did they behold
The vantage, overlooked by hasty hope,
How vulnerable he stood, his arms and thighs
Bare for their butt. At once they bent their bows;
At once ten arrows fled: seven, shot in vain,
Rung on his shield; but, with unhappier mark,
Two shafts hung quivering in his leg; a third
Below the shoulder pierced. Then Malinal
Groan’d, not for anguish of his wounds, but grief
And agony of spirit; yet resolv’d
To his last gasp to guard that precious post,
Nor longer able to endure afoot,
He, falling on his knees, receiv’d unharm’d
Upon his shield, now ample for defence,
Their second shower, and still defied the foe.
But they, now sure of conquest, hastened on
To thrust him down; and he, too, felt his strength
Ebbing away. Goervyl, in that hour
Of horror and despair, collected still,
Caught him, and by the shoulders drew him in,
And, calling on her comrades, with their help
Shut to the door in time, and with their weight
Secur’d it, not their strength; for she alone,
Found worthy of her noble ancestry,
In this emergence, felt her faculties
All present, and heroic strength of heart,
To cope with danger and contempt of death.
Shame on ye, British women! shame! exclaim’d
The daughter of King Owen, as she saw
The trembling hands and bloodless countenance
Pale as sepulchral marble; silent some;
Others with womanish cries lamenting now
That ever, in unhappy hour, they left
Their native land; — a pardonable fear;
For, hark! the war-whoop! sound whereto the howl
Of tygers or hyenas, heard at night
By captive from barbarian foes escap’d,
And wandering in the pathless wilderness,
Were music. Shame on ye! Goervyl cried;
Think what your fathers were, your husbands what,