Complete Poetical Works of Robert Southey
Page 89
And crush’d the race of men. Another life
The Gods assign’d to Nature: the third Sun
Form’d the celestial circle; then its flames
Burst forth, and overspread earth, sea, and sky,
Deluging the wide universe with fire,
Till all things were consum’d, and its own flames
Fed on itself, and spent themselves, and all
Was vacancy and darkness. Yet again
The World had being, and another Sun
Roll’d round the path of Heaven. That perish’d too:
The mighty Whirlwinds rose, and far away
Scattered its dying flames. The fifth was born;
The fifth to-day completes its destined course,
Perchance to rise no more. O Aztlan, fast
And pray! the Cycle of the Years is full!
Thus through Patamba, did the ominous voice
Exhort the people. Fervent vows all day
Were made, with loud lament; in every fane,
In every dwelling-place of man, were prayers,
The supplications of the affrighted heart,
Earnestly offered up with tears and groans.
So pass’d the forenoon; and, when now the Sun
Sloped from his southern height the downward way
Of Heaven, again the ominous warner cried,
Woe! woe! the Cycle of the Years is full!
Quench every fire! extinguish every light!
And every fire was quenched, and every light
Extinguish’d, at the voice.
Meantime the Priests
Began the rites. They gashed themselves, and plunged
Into the sacred pond of Ezapan,
Till the clear water, on whose bed of sand
The sunbeams sparkled late, opake with blood,
On its black surface mirrored all things round.
The children of the temple, in long search,
Had gather’d for the service of this day
All venomous things that fly, or wind their path
With sinuous trail, or crawl on reptile feet.
These, in one cauldron, o’er the sacred fire
They scorch, till of the loathsome living tribes,
Who, writhing in their burning agonies,
Fix on each other ill-directed wounds,
Ashes alone are left. In infants’ blood
They mix the infernal unction, and the Priests
Anoint themselves therewith.
Lo! from the South
The Orb of Glory his regardless way
Holds on. Again Patamba’s streets receive
The ominous voice, — Woe! woe! the Sun pursues
His journey to the limits of his course!
Let every man in darkness veil his wife;
Veil every maiden’s face; let every child
Be hid in darkness, there to weep and pray,
That they may see again the birth of light!
They heard, - and every husband veil’d his wife
In darkness; every maiden’s face was veil’d;
The children were in darkness led to pray,
That they once more might see the birth of light.
Westward the sun proceeds; the tall tree casts
A longer shade; the night-ey’d insect tribes
Wake to their portion of the circling hours;
The water-fowl, retiring to the shore,
Sweep in long files the surface of the lake.
Then from Patamba to the sacred mount
The Priests go forth; but not with songs of joy,
Nor cheerful instruments, they go, nor train
Of festive followers: silent and alone,
Leading one victim to his dreadful death,
They to the mountain-summit wend their way.
On the south shore, and level with the lake,
Patamba stood; westward were seen the walls
Of Aztlan, rising on a gentle slope;
Southward the plain extended far and wide;
To the east the mountain-boundary began,
And there the sacred mountain rear’d its head;
Above the neighboring heights, its lofty peak
Was visible far off. In the vale below,
Along the level borders of the lake,
The assembled Aztecas, with wistful eye,
Gaze on the sacred summit; hoping there
Soon to behold the fire of sacrifice
Arise, sure omen of continued light.
The Pabas to the sacred peak begin
Their way, and, as they go, with ancient songs
Hymn the departed Sun.
O Light of Life,
Yet once again arise! yet once again
Commence thy course of glory! Time hath seen
Four generations of mankind destroyed,
When the four Suns expired: oh! let not thou,
Human thyself of yore, the human race
Languish, and die in darkness!
The fourth Sun
Had perished; for the mighty Whirlwinds rose,
And swept it, with the dust of the shatter’d world,
Into the great abyss. The eternal Gods
Built a new World, and to a Hero race
Assign’d it for their goodly dwelling-place;
And, shedding on the bones of the destroy’d
A quickening dew, from them, as from a seed,
Made a new race of humankind spring up,
The menials of the Heroes born of Heaven.
But in the firmament no orb of day
Perform’d its course; Nature was blind; the fount
Of light had ceas’d to flow; the eye of Heaven
Was quench’d in darkness. In the sad obscure,
The earth-possessors to their parent Gods
Prayed for another Sun, their bidding heard,
And, in obedience rais’d a flaming pile.
Hopeful they circled it, when from above
The voice of the Invisible proclaim’d,
That he, who bravely plunged amid the fire
Should live again in Heaven, and there shine forth
The Sun of the young World. The Hero race
Grew pale, and from the fiery trial shrunk.
Thou, Nahuaztin, thou, O mortal born!
Heardest; thy heart was strong; the flames receiv’d
Their victim, and the humbled Heroes saw
The orient sky, with smiles of rosy joy,
Welcome the coming of the new-born God.
O, human once, now let not human-kind
Languish, and die in darkness!
In the East
Then didst thou pause to see the Hero race
Perish. In vain, with impious arms, they strove
Against thy will; in vain against thine orb
They shot their shafts; the arrows of their pride
Fell on themselves; they perish’d, to thy praise.
So perish still thine impious enemies,
O Lord of Day! But to the race devout,
Who offer up their morning sacrifice,
Honoring thy godhead, and with morning hymns,
And with the joy of music and of dance,
Welcome thy glad uprise, — to them, O Sun,
Still let the fountain-streams of splendour flow!
Still smile on them propitious, thou whose smile
Is light and life and joyance! Once again,
Parent of Being, Prince of Glory, rise;
Begin thy course of beauty once again!
Such was their ancient song, as up the height
Slowly they wound their way. The multitude
Beneath repeat the strain; with fearful eyes
They watch the spreading glories of the West!
And, when at length the hastening orb hath sunk
Below the plain, such sinking at the heart
They feel, as he who, hopeless of return,
From his dear home depart
s. Still on the light,
The last green light that lingers in the west,
Their looks are fasten’d, till the clouds of night
Roll on, and close in darkness the whole heaven.
Then ceas’d their songs; then o’er the crowded vale
No voice of man was heard. Silent and still
They stood, all turn’d toward the east, in hope
There on the holy mountain to behold
The sacred fire, and know that once again
The Sun begins his stated round of years.
The Moon arose; she shone upon the lake,
Which lay one smooth expanse of silver light;
She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast
Upon their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade. Who then look’d round,
Beholding all that mighty multitude,
Felt yet severer awe, so solemnly still
The thronging thousands stood. The breeze was heard
That rustled in the reeds; the little wave,
That rippled to the shore and left no foam,
Sent its low murmurs far.
Meantime the Priests
Have stretched their victim on the mountain-top:
A miserable man, his breast is bare,
Bare for the death that waits him; but no hand
May there inflict the blow of mercy. Pil’d
On his bare breast, the cedar boughs are laid;
On his bare breast, dry sedge and odorous gums
Laid ready to receive the sacred spark,
And blaze, to herald the ascending Sun,
Upon his living altar. Round the wretch
The inhuman ministers of rites accurst
Stand, and expect the signal when to strike
The seed of fire. Their Chief, Tezozomoc,
Apart from all, upon the pinnacle
Of that high mountain, eastward turns his eyes;
For now the hour draws nigh, and speedily
He looks to see the first faint dawn of day
Break through the orient sky.
Impatiently
The multitude await the happy sign.
Long hath the midnight past; and every hour,
Yea, every moment, to their torturing fears
Seem’d lengthen’d out, insufferably long.
Silent they stood, and breathless in suspense.
The breeze had fallen; no stirring breath of wind
Rustled the reeds. Oppressive, motionless,
It was a labour and a pain to breathe
The close, hot, heavy air. — Hark! from the woods
The howl of their wild tenants! and the birds, —
The day-birds, in blind darkness fluttering,
Fearful to rest, uttering portentous cries!
Anon, the sound of distant thunders came;
They peal beneath their feet. Earth shakes and yawns; —
And, lo! upon the sacred mountain’s top,
The light, — the mighty flame! A cataract
Of fire bursts upward from the mountain-head! —
High, — high, — it shoots! the liquid fire boils out;
It streams in torrents down! Tezozomoc
Beholds the judgment! wretched, — wretched man,
On the upmost pinnacle he stands, and sees
The lava-floods beneath him; and his hour
Is come. The fiery shower, descending, heaps
Red ashes round; they fall like drifted snows,
And bury and consume the accursed Priest.
The Tempest is abroad. Fierce from the North
A wind uptears the lake, whose lowest depths
Rock, while convulsions shake the solid earth.
Where is Patamba? where the multitudes
Who thronged her level shores? The mighty Lake
Hath burst its bounds, and yon wide valley roars,
A troubled sea, before the rolling storm.
XXVII.
The storm hath ceas’d; but still the lava-tides
Roll down the mountain-side in streams of fire;
Down to the lake they roll, and yet roll on,
All burning, through the waters. Heaven above
Glows round the burning mount, and fiery clouds
Scour through the black and starless firmament.
Far off, the Eagle, in her mountain-nest,
Lies watching in alarm, with steady eye,
The midnight radiance.
But the storm hath ceas’d;
The earth is still; and, lo! while yet the dawn
Is struggling through the eastern cloud, the barks
Of Madoc on the waters.
Who is he
On yonder crag, all dripping from the lake,
Who hath escap’d its depths? He lies along,
Now near exhaust with self-preserving toil;
And still his eye dwells on the spreading waves,
Where late the multitudes of Aztlan stood,
Collected in their strength. It is the King
Of Aztlan, who, extended on the rock,
Looks vainly for his people. He beholds
The barks of Madoc plying to preserve
The strugglers; — but how few! upon the crags
Which verge the northern shore, upon the heights
Eastward, how few have refuged! Then the King
Almost repented him of life preserv’d,
And wish’d the waves had whelm’d him, or the sword
Fallen on him, ere this ill, this wretchedness,
This desolation. Spirit-troubled thus,
He call’d to mind how from the first his heart
Inclin’d to peace, and how reluctantly,
Obedient to the Pabas and their Gods,
Had he to this unhappy war been driven.
All now was ended; it remain’d to yield,
To obey the inevitable will of heaven,
From Aztlan to depart. As thus he mus’d,
A bird, upon a bough which overhung
The rock, as though in echo to his thought,
Cried out, — Depart! depart! for so the note,
Articulately in his native tongue,
Spake to the Azteca. The King looked up;
The hour, the horrors round him, had impress’d
Feelings and fears well fitted to receive
All superstition; and the voice which cried,
Depart! depart! seem’d like the voice of fate.
He thought, perhaps Coanocotzin’s soul,
Descending from his blissful halls in the hour
Of evil, thus to comfort and advise,
Hover’d above him.
Lo! toward the rock,
Oaring with feeble arms his difficult way,
A struggler hastens: he hath reach’d the rock,
Hath grasped it; but his strength, exhausted, fails
To lift him from the depth. The King descends
Timely in aid: he holds the feeble one
By his long locks, and on the safety-place
Lands him. He, panting, from his clotted hair
Shook the thick waters, from his forehead wiped
The blinding drops; on his preserver’s face
Then look’d, and knew the King. Then Tlalala
Fell on his neck, and groan’d. They laid them down
In silence, for their hearts were full of woe.
The sun came forth; it shone upon the rock;
They felt the kindly beams; their strengthen’d blood
Flowed with a freer action. They arose,
And looked around, if aught of hope might meet
Their prospect. On the lake the galleys plied
Their toil successfully, ever to the shore
Bearing their rescu’d charge: the eastern heights,
Rightward and leftward of the fiery mount,
Were throng’d with fugitives, whose growing crowds
Speckled the ascent.
Then Tlalala took hope,
And his young heart, reviving, re-assum’d
Its wonted vigour. Let us to the heights
He cried; — all is not lost, Yuhidthiton!
When they behold thy countenance, the sight
Will cheer them in their woe, and they will bless
The Gods of Aztlan.
To the heights they went;
And when the remnant of the people saw
Yuhidthiton preserv’d, such comfort then
They felt, as utter wretchedness can feel,
That only gives grief utterance, only speaks
In groans and recollections of the past.
He look’d around; a multitude was there, —
But where the strength of Aztlan? where her hosts?
Her marshall’d myriads where, whom yester Sun
Had seen in arms array’d, in spirit high,
Mighty in youth and courage? — What were these,
This remnant of the people? Women most,
Who from Patamba, when the shock began,
Ran with their infants; widow’d now, yet each
Among the few who from the lake escap’d,
Wandering, with eager eyes and wretched hope.
The King beheld, and groan’d; against a tree
He leaned, and bowed his head, subdued of soul.
Meantime, amid the crowd, doth Tlalala
Seek for his wife and boy. In vain he seeks
Ilanquel there; in vain for her he asks:
A troubled look, a melancholy eye,
A silent motion of the hopeless head,
These answer him. But Tlalala represt
His anguish, and he call’d upon the King, —
Yuhidthiton, thou seest thy people left;
Their fate must be determin’d; they are here
Houseless, and wanting food.
The King look’d up:
It is determined, Tlalala! the Gods
Have crush’d us. Who can stand against their wrath?
Have we not life and strength? the Tyger cried.
Disperse these women to the towns which stand
Beyond the ruinous waters; against them
The White Men will not war. Ourselves are few,
Too few to root the invaders from our land,
Or meet them with the hope of equal fight;
Yet may we shelter in the woods, and share
The Lion’s liberty; and man by man