Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 85
Availed not now regret or female fear!
She mail’d her delicate limbs; beneath the plate
Compress’d her bosom; on her golden locks
The helmet’s overheavy load she placed;
Hung from her neck the shield; and though the sword,
Which swung beside her, lightest she had chosen,
Though in her hand she held the slenderest spear,
Alike unwieldy for the maiden’s grasp
The sword and ashen lance. But, as she touch’d
The murderous point, an icy shudder ran
Through every fibre of her trembling frame;
And, overcome by womanly terror then,
The damsel to Goervyl turn’d, and let
The breastplate fall, and on her bosom placed
The Lady’s hand, and hid her face, and cried,
Save me! The warrior, who beheld the act,
And heard not the low voice, with angry eye
Glow’d on the seemly boy of feeble heart.
But, in Goervyl, joy had overpower’d
The wonder; joy to find the boy she lov’d
Was one to whom her heart with closer love
Might cling; and to her brother she exclaimed,
She must not go! We women in the war
Have done our parts.
A moment Madoc dwelt
On the false Mervyn, with an eye from whence
Displeasure did not wholly pass away.
Nor loitering to resolve Love’s riddle now,
To Malinal he turn’d, where on his couch
The wounded youth was laid. — True friend, said he,
And brother mine, — for truly by that name
I trust to greet thee, — if, in this near fight,
My hour should overtake me, — as who knows
The lot of war? — Goervyl hath my charge
To quite thee for thy service with herself;
That so thou mayest raise up seed to me
Of mine own blood, who may inherit here
The obedience of thy people and of mine. —
Malinal took his hand, and to his lips
Feebly he pressed it, saying, One boon more,
Father and friend, I ask! — if thou shouldst meet
Yuhidthiton in battle, think of me.
XVIII.
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 stretched 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 daylight, by those midnight fires
Distinctlier seen. Sight that with horror fill’d
The Cymry, and to mightier efforts rous’d.
Howbeit, this abhorred idolatry
Worked 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 turned; and, when they saw
The countenance his open helm disclos’d,
They echo’d, Madoc! Madoc! Through the host
Spread the miraculous joy, — He lives! he lives!
He comes himself in arms! — Lincoya heard,
As he had rais’d 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, — flashed 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,
Encounter’d 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 feather’d royalty;
Gold fenced his arms and legs; upon his helm
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-colour’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 war,
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.
Oppos’d, in mail complete,
Stood Madoc in his strength. The flexible chains
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 blazon’d eaglets, at whose sight,
Along the Marches, or where holy Dee
Through Cestrian pastures rolls his tamer stream,
So oft the yoeman 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 sculptur’d dragon sate,
Sate no fantastic terrors; a white plume
Nodded above, far-seen, floating like foam
On the war-tempest, always where
The tide ran strongest. Man to man they stood,
The King of Aztlan and the Ocean Chief.
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’s tongue,
Seem’d 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 dropt
The unprofitable weapon, and receiv’d
His ponderous club, — that club, beneath whose force,
Driven by his father’s arm, Tepollomi
Had fallen subdu’d, — and fast and fierce he drove
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,
Cumber’d the Azteca, and from his arm,
Clinch’d in the Briton’s mighty grasp, at once
He dropt the impeding buckler, and let fall
The unfasten’d club; which when the Prince beheld,
He thrust him off, and, drawing back, resum’d
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, inspir’d him. With a mighty blow
He cleft Coanocotzin’s helm: expos’d
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,
Prestto 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,
Followed 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
Repelled 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 accurst,
Ye blow the fall too soon! Ye dogs of Hell,
The Hart is yet at bay! — Thus long the old man,
As one exhaust’d 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,
Bleeding, and all astound. A man of proof
Was Urien in his day, thought worthiest,
In martial thews and manly discipline,
To train the sons of Owen. He had lost
Youth’s supple sleight; yet still the skill remained,
And in his stiffened 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
Laid open by the sword; for side by side
The brethren of Aberfraw mowed 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 reeked with innocent blood,
Reeks now with righteous slaughter. Frantically,
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 rushed 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 ardour sprang; —
They saw Mexitli; momently they hop’d
That he would rise in vengeance. Madoc seiz’d
A massy club, and from his azure throne
Shatter’d 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 sav’d.
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
Called on the Tyger, — Let us bear from hence
The dead Ocelopan, the slaughtered King;
Not to the Strangers should their bones be left,
O Tlalala! — The Tyger 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! I Bear hence Ocelopan;
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,
Prest round the body-bearers; few indeed,
For few were they who in that fearful hour
Had ears to hear, — but with a holy zeal,
A myrtyr courage, 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 n
ot seen their perilous strife:
Remembering Malinal, and in his heart
Honouring 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 retir’d.
XIX.
Southward of Aztlan stood, beside the Lake,
A city of the Aztecas, by name
Patamba. Thither, from the first alarm,
The women and infirm old men were sent,
And children; thither they who from the fight,
And from the fall of Aztlan, had escaped,
In scatter’d bands repaired. Their City lost,
Their Monarch slain, their Idols overthrown, —
These tidings spread dismay; but to dismay
Succeeded horror soon, and kindling rage,
Horror by each new circumstance increas’d:
By numbers, rafe embolden’d. Lo! to the town,
Lamenting loud, a numerous train approach,
Like mountain torrents, swelling as they go.
Borne in the midst, upon the bier of shields?
The noble dead were seen. To tenfold grief
That spectacle provok’d, to tenfold wrath
That anguish stung them. With their yells and groans
Curses are mix’d, and threats, and bitter vows
Of vengeance full and speedy. From the wreck
Of Aztlan who is sav’d? Tezozomoc,
Chief servant of the Gods, their favor’d Priest,
The voice by whom they speak; young Tlalala,
Whom even defeat with fresher glory crowns;
And full of fame, their country’s rock of strength,
Yuhidthiton: him to their sovereign slain
Allied in blood, mature in wisdom him,
Of valour unsurpassable, by all
Belov’d and honour’d, him the general voice
Acclaims their King; him they demand to lead
Their gather’d force to battle, to revenge
Their Lord, their Gods, their kinsmen, to redeem
Their altars and their country.
But the dead
First from the nation’s gratitude require
The rites of death. On mats of mountain palm,
Wrought of rare texture and of richest hues,
The slaughter’d warriors, side by side, were laid;
Their bodies wrapped in many-colour’d robes