But to be "drawn and quartered" like the brute, And made the sport of pa.s.sion; to begin A life of va.s.salage, with such a slave Yclept as master, claiming from above The license that Jehovah never gave Except the iron hand was woven o'er with love-- It is too much! G.o.d's justice is not lame.

Hypocrisy may steal and wear the cloak, And don the ermine, with its fair, false claim; With crucifix and litany may croak; But Time o'ertakes it and it falls to earth Like Judas on its immolating sword, And it must learn to curse its hour of birth.

It is the pledge of destiny--the stern, unwritten word.

THE LANDING OF THE SPANIARDS.

The Courier[N], new laden from the coast, Has hastened to the council of the King With most portentious tidings: picture-prints That tell of boats that float upon the wing; And pale-faced warriors, clad in shining scales.

The monarch hears with trembling; he has long Looked for the coming of great Quetzalcoatl, And, though he felt his nation to be strong, Yet had he feared his reign would be the last.

The oracles had read him overcast, With some impending destiny--the ruse Which priests have always found to compa.s.s their abuse.

The chiefs of church and state are all convened To canvas, and compare their theories, And much of wisdom surely can be gleaned From these firm-visaged counsellors of his; And Montezuma[O] is the first to speak-- His dark, sad eyes are beautifully bright; He was not philosophic like the Greek, And yet his words made glitter of the night:

"We swing upon the hinges of our fate, Most reverend priests and worthy counsellors, And it is well we counsel and conform Our future to the fashion of events.

The rising sun has sent inquiring rays For many years, to greet our coming G.o.d, And lo! he now turns back from Tlapalan; "And what must we, but welcome his advance?

Ye long have held me kindred of the G.o.ds; Yet I deny me what your partial eyes Have kenned upon my una.s.suming face.

I am as other men, though more advanced; And if great Quetzalcoatl takes back my crown, I bow in humble va.s.salage to him.

For what am I, to question his advance?

A moth, upon the torches' fervent ray; An anthill, at the foot of 'Catapetl.

And I have sometimes thought most worthy priests, That we have drawn the lightning from the cloud By a mistaken worship of the G.o.ds.

No one will question my religious zeal, For I brought many victims to the block; But human blood doth have a subtile voice That reaches ears our eyes have never seen; And though the itztli opens to the heart, Some heart may beat far out in open s.p.a.ce That whispers its avengement on the air.

Our G.o.ds have brought us victory, 'tis true; And yet, great Nezahualcoyotl did spurn The shedding of all human blood, to G.o.ds; And when great Quetzalcoatl was on the earth, Our G.o.ds were satisfied with other blood.

The angels of the mighty past cry out Against the d.a.m.ning practice. Why not now, "For once and all, wash off our b.l.o.o.d.y hands?

These human cries pierce farther than we know; These human souls may ride into the sun; We cannot claim his broad, unc.u.mbered breast, To the exclusion of the rest of earth.

The G.o.d of earth and air may come to judge At this dark moment for this very sin; Then let us look him boldly in the face, And if we have offended, make amends; If our mistaken zeal has overdone, Surely his heart will cover up our faults, And we may thus propitiate his wrath."

Then rose the ancient High Priest, Tlalocan,[P]

And in his sternest manner, thus he spake: "Great Montezuma! king, of earthly kings!

The heart of Tlalocan is bruised and broke To hear the words his monarch has vouchsafed Such sacrilege belongeth not to kings; Great Huitzilopotchli must, indeed, be strayed, Or, he will shake his thunders on the earth, And, strike the Aztecs from the face of him.

War is the wastage of all human flesh, And whether man be stricken on the field, Or, with the sacred itztli, offered up, The measure must be met with human blood.

"Thy empire has been purchased at this price, And cannot otherwise perpetuate.

The earth and heaven, both have set their mark Upon the bosom of the placid lake; And by the coming of those fiery stars, That flashed their baleful faces in the sky, All omenous that anger brooded o'er, The G.o.ds have read the purpose of your soul; And thus forwarn you that you must retract.

They cry for victims and must be appeased; They gave you conquest without stay or stint, When you did furnish, full to their desire; But there are few within the shambles now, And they must be replenished, or the doom, That has forshadowed on the Eastern sky, Will flash and fall upon your naked head.

Great Quetzalcoatl will come and strike you down, And grind you into ashes in his wrath."

Then spoke the st.u.r.dy Counselor Teuhtlile[Q]: "Tlalocan holds the nearest place to heaven, And in his zeal, doth sound the ready key That rhythms with your empire. We must suit Our action with his words, or we are lost.

These pale-faced warriors must be met with alms; The G.o.ds must be appeased with fresh supplies.

"Let me, myself, go down upon the coast, And with our ready painters bring you back A full account of what we look upon.

And if, perchance, these be the van of him Whose coming we have watched these many years, Then will we counsel further the emprise, And in the watch and wake of all events, Be not o'ertaken, but forestall the time."

"Your counsel has the sanction it desires; I would not measure lances with the G.o.ds,"

The monarch answered: "In the dust I bend, And plead the weakness of a human heart.

The South shall furnish victims for the block; And Teuhtlile shall repair him to the coast; The dread monition of the flaming stars May be evaded with our ready zest.

Our gold and precious stones, with lavish hand, Shall be poured out to coy them from our track; For what are all the earth's indulgences, Against the smiling favor of the G.o.ds?"

"Repair thou to the coast, my good Teuhtlile, With plenteous retinue, and goodly stores; With cotton fabrics of the latest cast; With shields and cuira.s.ses inlaid with gold; The burnished mirror of the fervent sun; The silver shining circlet of the moon;

"With robes of feather-cloth made rich with pearls; And other trophies that your tact shall find.

Receive them kindly, as becomes their state; And let thy wisdom gather in the full, Their purpose and intent upon our land; It may fall out they are as other men, Unsanctioned at the chambers of the G.o.ds, Yet must our moderation pave the way, Till we have fully compa.s.sed their intent."

So said, so done; the emba.s.sy went forth To meet the wily Spaniard on the coast; They little dreamed of what a forest fox They had to meet; they little knew the boast That hung upon the challenge of their fate.

Their superst.i.tions made them ready prey; They opened wide their hospitable gate, And gave the jewel of their life away.

It mattered little how they forced it back, And tried to parley with their destiny; The hungry lion was upon their track, And they were lost forever and for aye.

Done in the name of Christ? Oh, spare the word!

Let not the Nazarene be buffeted; Gold was the souvenir; the pitying Lord Was, with this nation, just as deeply bled.

Their superst.i.tions were the ready springs The Spaniards played upon to break their hearts; Deceit, as d.a.m.nable as serpents' stings, Barbed with its cruel spines their poisoned darts.

The emba.s.sy returned, and others went; Still could they not force back this coming cloud-- The steady purpose and the black intent, That wove with cunning fingers at their shroud.

Had Spain come as the Pilgrims at Cape Cod, Or Penn upon the Delaware, to lead The Aztec back to fatherhood and G.o.d, And let their st.u.r.dy manhood for them plead, How ready could their faces been upturned, And hearts been melted into Christian mold!-- The brand of h.e.l.l was on their bare backs burned, And they were ground to ashes for their gold!

Did Christ e'er suffer such supreme disgrace?

Or on the cross; or in Gethsemane?

Did heavier drops of blood stand on his face Than there were forced by this foul treachery?

Oh! how the patient Nazarene must bend And break beneath fresh crosses every day-- Fresh Judases betraying him as friend, And scorpions to sting him in the way!

Thank G.o.d! the time is coming when, as Judge, The Man of Sorrows, ermined and supreme, No longer as a packhorse or a drudge, Shall hold the scales and watch the balance beam!

How heavy did he make the widow's mite; How do the tears of men bend down the scale; How ponderous is a pennyweight of right; How do the little things of life prevail!

The Spanish Conquest, sometime, will be tried Against the heart Malinche[R] threw away, And Aztec's tears be placed against your pride.

O Hispagniola! you will rue the day-- A feather and a mountain to be weighed-- How shall the beam fly up at your disgrace, How shall your curse, a hundred fold, be paid, And what a glory light up Aztlan's face!

You came, like tender shepherds to the fold, Yet, like a wolf, you tore the frighted flock; You kissed but to decoy them from their gold; Your seeming calm was but the earthquake's shock.

Your empty babble of the cross and Christ, Was but the mask to cover your deceit; Your hearts were canker, but your words enticed, And _never_ did a fouler scheme make conquest more complete.

Not Aztlan, with her bare and bleeding breast, Alone, hath felt thy treachery too late; Columbus, in his chains and sorely pressed, Bends to thy penalty for being great.

A thousand white-robed saints with bony palms Shake their accusing fingers in thy face; Their bodies burned, their souls changed into psalms.

To chant in mournful cadence thy disgrace.

ARRIVAL OF THE SPANIARDS AT MEXICO.

November comes as Autumn's requiem, To sigh and sough the harvest, and the field, The winged ecstatics mourn, and then are dumb, And life and growth in full submission yield.

Mexitli is not altogether clad In nature's winding sheet of yellow leaves; And yet her year is getting old and sad, And youth and fruitage at his bedside grieves.

As on the lingering footsteps of the year-- A stranger and the Winter, hand in hand, Both on the threshold as two ghosts appear.

One strikes the orbit with its wasting sand, The other coils around the nation's throat; The nation and the year together die; Both on the waste of time are set afloat, And sound alike death's mighty mystery.

In all the glitter at his vast command, Went Montezuma to receive his guests; If gold be great, then was it truly grand.

The royal plume upon his forehead rests; His feet pressed soles of heavy beaten gold; His cloak and anklets sprinkled o'er with pearls,

And only n.o.ble hands are left to hold The blazing palanquin. Like t.i.tled Earls, They guard the skirts of royalty from stain Against the common people; all the same As in our ripened age. 'Tis hard to gain Much on the sodden march of royalty, Where accident supplants all other claim.

The monarch in the easy prime of life, But lightly bronzed. The glowing, mellow hue That lit his cheek, seemed borrowed from the sun, And shadowing a heart that beat as true To G.o.d and country as he knew their names,-- As any monarch that e'er wore a crown.

His open-hearted welcome, like himself, Was, as the hardy yeoman, bare and brown.

He felt that he was meeting destiny, Yet, to its solving, he would bend the knee With dignity and grace; not turn away, But face it with a ready, cheerful glance, And meeting night, surcharge it with the day; And grasping, break, if possible, the lance That he felt sure was leveled at his breast.

He did not know the Inquisition stood, With rack and torture at his very gate; That it had traveled half the world for blood To whet its throat for St. Bartholomew And came with ravening appet.i.te for him.