Those wary messengers he little knew, Or those brown eyes would suddenly grown dim, And the warm heart would furnaced up its heat; And he would grappled at its very throat; And man to man, and blood to blood, would meet, And not a plume above one corselet float To bear the story back of it to Spain.

They were not schooled in all the arts of war, Nor were they wise in all the world's deceit; Yet would they fought beneath their fated star, And challenged every stubborn step, though it had proven vain.

But in this fleecy covering, the wolf So hid its teeth that it was at the door Before they dreamed of treachery. The gulf Lay many leagues behind their foes; its sh.o.r.e And all the distance had been gained by stealth.

Tlascala had been humbled on the march, And promised spoils from Montezuma's wealth; But they had reached the keystone of the arch, At superst.i.tion's beck. The Aztec's G.o.ds Had chained their valor, or their greater odds Would crushed the viper, as it should have been, And left it to a purer age, to seek a common kin.

The Monarch gave them hostelry and cheer, Food of the rarest and the sparkling pulque, And quarters for their troopers, all quite near To his own palace gates. The very bulk Of his well-laden markets was thrown down To their repletion, for their loaded board.

They fared as princes favored of the crown, Of all the best the Kingdom could afford.

The fair Malinche was interpreter, And Montezuma spoke to them through her.

He told them of the mighty Quetzalcoatl, And how he recognized them as his kin; He thought he had their history, the whole Vast riddle of their ancient origin.

"I rule a mighty nation," quoth the King.

"All Anahuac is subject to my sway; And yet, I recognize that you have come From the strong palace of a mightier lord, To whom I bend as subject; and with you We now will sway the scepter of his will.

We long have watched his coming from the East, And now that he has sent his messengers, Our hearts are ready for his wise commands.

We would have urged your coming on before, But that we heard of tales of cruelty, Which, haply we may now believe as false, We welcome you with all our open hearts,

"And hope you may enjoy our humble fare.

We are not wise, as you are, for our lives Have not caught wisdom from the fountain head, And hung upon the lips of Quetzalcoatl; Yet are we cousins in the faded past, And welcome you as brothers and as friends."

How caught the Spanish Chieftain at the words!

How did he gloat upon this artifice!

How useless hung their heavy-hilted swords That they should win a nation at this price!

With what a care he turned the dusty past, To cover up the semblance of disguise; And fix their superst.i.tion still more fast, That he might clutch and carry home the prize.

"There _is_ grandeur in the tented field; The bivouac and the smoldering camp-fires."

The human soul unconsciously must yield To its supremest charm, where man aspires To meet his fellow-man at one great bar; And "valor speaks to valor" of its claim, In all the panoply of stubborn war, And drops the gauntlet in a nation's name.

It may be terrible, but it is grand To see the banners flaunting in the breeze; To hear the bugle blare and stern command; And see opposing forces strive to seize From Nature's stern arbitrament of force The laurel that shall deck the victor's brow; And turn the stream of nations from its course.

The cutting of new sod by such a plow May tear up all the tender ties of life; And hearts be turned to ashes in its path; These are the ponderous incidents of strife, And made legitimate when wrath meets wrath; But when the a.s.sa.s.sin creeps into our hearts, And draws around him all their sanct.i.ties, And he becomes a parcel of our parts, And all we have or claim are made as his, What human brush can paint the upraised hand That smites our confidence at such an hour?

What simile can human tongue command?

It is, indeed, beyond our mortal power.

We talk of devil, but the word is tame; It cannot reach the climax we have sought; It only frets us into hotter flame, And beggars all the litany of thought.

I do not claim that Cortez was not brave; Nor would I tear one laurel from his brow.

I only claim he stole the devil's glaive; He held it then, and let him hold it now.

The issues of their lives are both with G.o.d, The brown-eyed Monarch and the dark-eyed Knight.

The flowers of charity should strew the sod Above them both; yet, Cosmos! was it right?

O world of human hearts and human lives!

Was Montezuma worthy of this fate?

O world of husbands! world of tender wives!

Behold your Aztlan! bleeding, desolate, And say, if all their multiple of sins, Though they be blacker than the blackest night, Were worthy of the end that now begins To grind them down to powder? Was it right For Spain to steal the scepter from the hand That held it out in welcome to their doors, And poured their treasures out as free as sand, And oped with lavish all their loaded stores; To steal the key of superst.i.tion's gate, And break the lock upon their hard-earned gold, And, fattening at their table, steal their plate, And feasting on their lambs to steal their fold; To make a prison of the room he gave In which to hold the Monarch as a slave?

O pitying G.o.d! thy thunderbolts were scarce.

Why crushed they not this h.e.l.l-begotten farce?

And when the Aztecs, goaded to the quick By the proud insolence of such a horde, Could bear no longer parley, but were sick Of such a visitor at such a board, And rose en ma.s.se to crush the viper's fang, They bring the Monarch out to face the crowd, And plead for their immunity; the pang That wrung his breast (for he, indeed, was proud) Was like an arrow in his royal heart; And yet he prayed for their forgiveness then, And like a martyr bravely bore their part-- Search history; and find out greater men, And they are less forgiving. There he stood, His nation thronged before him, in its wrath; Yet did he plead, before this mult.i.tude, To spare the serpent, now across their path; He could not name a promise not unbroke, He could not offer one excuse for time, He could not tell them why to hold their stroke, He plead for hands scarred over with their crime.

Did ever charity reach loftier height?

Can Christian Spain outshine this sad, brown face?

How many souls in Christiandom, as white, Would faced his countrymen, from such a place?

Great Montezuma! where shall we find room!

When Spain has such a mult.i.tude of saints To save your enemies, you courted doom, Yet would not kiss the cross with your complaints; Therefore, anathema!--It will not do, To pa.s.s a heretic at Heaven's gate; You held no mumbled crucifix to view-- The Infallible has said it, you must wait.

Wait for a riper age to touch the chord That quivers, all unconsciously, your praise; When justice, _only_, draws the tardy sword, And Earth's abhorrence covers those old days With its repentant ashes, then my King May rest his memory upon stubborn facts Nor minstrels falter when they fain would sing Their elegies implanted with _his_ acts.

The Holy Inquisition, from old Spain, And St. Bartholomew, from "Ma belle France,"

The hissing f.a.gots of sweet Mary's reign-- These million martyrs, with their melting glance, Look at _his_ agony, across the sea, _Who_, blind in superst.i.tion, groped his way O'er harmless victims and much misery To where the rays were slanting into day.

In Europe's face the star of Bethlehem, With its benignant splendor, shed its light; _These_ but the groping nomads of old Shem, Lost in the meshes, of a rayless night.

_Those_, neath the palm of Earth's philosophy; _These_ on the torchless desert, not a star To guide them through life's potent mystery; _Those_ bringing all the wisdom from afar, Though Montezuma's sins had cried to Heaven In a far greater stress; yet what were they, Paling his cruelties, and still forgiven, To pour out greater vials the next day?

O Spain! you lent the sanction of your name, To cover up the foulest deed of time; Upon your skirt is fastened this great shame, And nation never wore the brand of a more causeless crime.

DEATH OF MONTEZUMA.

One sad, sad task, awaits my faltering pen, And I have done. One flower upon _his_ grave, Who in his dying could, alas! not save His country from the vulturous maw of men.

They played upon the monarch with their arts, Till he became a captive in their hands; It was consistent with their _Christian_ hearts That their good host should follow their commands.

They said their _Christian_ lord across the sea Must have his treasure for their _Christian_ use.

All this was bitter, yet, he did agree, And bent a patient knee to their abuse.

They struck their temples, and the red, right hand Of Aztlan rose upon them. They could bear To see their monarch littled, and their land Made tribute to a stranger; but, beware Stern warriors of Castile! touch not their G.o.ds.

The hearts of Aztlan are but human hearts, And at some shrine the whole creation nods; Invade the sanctum, and the whole man starts.

Las Casas[S] would have won them with his love-- The potent key that opens every gate.

Let not deceit claim sanction from above; It may a.s.sist upon the wheels of fate, But what Spain offered through such legatees Was worse than powder on the bated flame.

To gather fruit from such ill-freighted trees, Was worse than stealing nightmare from a dream.

In Christ's good name they stole the monarch's gold; They changed the name of Christ to treachery; They gathered all the spoils their hands could hold, And pointed to their Master on the tree.

Their Master? No! since Lucifer was hurled Down from the shining chambers of the just To vent his spleen upon a new-made world, He never had a worthier task in trust, Than that he gave to Spain's inglorious knights, To rob this people of their vested rights.

The people gather at the palace gates, And vengeance writes itself upon each face; Their generosity no longer waits, They spit upon, and spurn the outraged place.

It harbors those who wrote themselves as knaves Upon the pliant tablets of their lives, And now the incensed nation only craves Deliverance for their children and their wives.

They know the belching cannon of the knights Will make sad havoc in their stately host; They know that Spain and Fate to-day unite; They know, if fortune fails them, all is lost; But they can bear no longer to be torn, And swear by all the G.o.ds to pluck this thorn.

The Spaniards see their perfidy, too late; And call great Montezuma to the gate.

"Why are my people here to-day in arms?

These stranger friends are still my welcome guests; They soon will turn them backward to their homes.

Shall we raise hands against great Quetzalcoatl?

We fight against the G.o.ds? Lay down your arms!

Go to your homes, and all shall yet be well, And peace shall reign in all Tenocht.i.tlan[T]!"

They bent before him reverently at first.

It was a moment--then their anger burst: "Base Aztec! woman! coward! sneaking slave!

The whites have made a puppet of your name!

Talk not of fighting 'gainst our honored G.o.ds; We soil their sacred robes if we submit!"

A cloud of stones and arrows flew the air; And Montezuma fell a victim of _their_ rage and _his_ despair.

His heart had broke when he beheld the throng, For he was burning with his country's wrong; And when the missiles smote his fevered crest, His very soul was reaching out for rest.

_They_ only helped to roll the burden off, So long imprinted on his saddened face-- It was _too_ much to hear his people scoff-- He fell; and they removed him from the place.

He never rose again, nor wished to rise; He made no effort to outlive his land; He felt _his_ weakness, and he heard _her_ cries; He saw _her_ sinking with _his_ wasting sand.

He knew his enemies had stole the garb Of G.o.ds to fasten on him their deceit; That they had stung the nation with their barb, And he would not survive its sore defeat.

He felt their scoffings were deserved of him, For he should gathered wisdom with his years; He saw his weakness when his sight was dim, And poured his wasting moments out in tears.

They called the Priest to shrive him for his death-- The worthy Monk Olmedo[U] takes his palms; It is in vain; his very latest breath Repulses all their uninvited alms.

He dies an Aztec--honor to his name!

And spurns the symbols that have crushed him down.

What mockery when he is all aflame With their abuses! Give him back his crown, His country's honor, and its hard-earned gold.

But force no wormwood to his fevered lips; His hand is pulseless, and will soon be cold; His life was shadow; and his death--eclipse.

Great are the consolations of the cross-- The Father-Son of Calvary, and time.