Their glory compensates a kingdom's loss; But piety must not be wed to crime.

Did all the roses blossom from the cross, And all the thorns grow out upon the waste?

Then were the metal guarded from the dross, And every crust be suited to our taste; But bitter-sweet is all the book of life, And thorns and roses crowd the tangled way; And good and evil, always, are at strife-- Night always dogs the footsteps of the day.

Yet "figs cannot be gathered from the thorn,"

Nor "grapes from thistles," says the patient Lord-- One great, good life, like a new angel born, Is the most potent sermon ever heard.

The hands that smote the Monarch in the face Did honor to his ashes, cold and dead.

Their anger was rubbed out, and not a trace Was left, as with their slow and measured tread They bore his sacred ashes to the tomb Within the walls of old Chapultepec, Where stately trees, and flowers perennial bloom, And, all the pulses of their lives in check, Bow down to kiss the shrine of memory.

The sacred hush of death comes none too oft To still the fevered brain and make us free-- It is a gentle hand, and moves so soft That it compensates all our misery By chaining all the lions of our life And placing durance on the throbbing drum That marshals us to earth's unpitying strife.

How should we reverence the hand that strikes our pa.s.sions dumb!

Cortez and Montezuma; Aztlan, Spain-- The very mingling of these words is pain.

The one, bold, cold, unscrupulous and brave, And making of each obstacle a slave; Seeking _his_ glory in the name of Christ, To gain his ends unfaithful to each tryst.-- The fault is with the ethics of his race, Which justify the means for _any_ end, And leave the moral aspect without place, And to the foulest acts their ready sanction lend.

The thought of holding man to his account, And throwing merit against circ.u.mstance, Of cleansing souls at one great common fount, Of holding out to man an equal chance-- These things were not considered in the least.

The glory of himself and Spain were first; All the excesses pardoned by the Priest Weaned the poor soul from any moral thirst.

A golden apple trembled on the limb, And he must pluck it, at whatever cost.

What matter whose?--it should belong to him; It was too tempting, and must not be lost: The wall that lay before it must be scaled, The owner of the field must be destroyed, And if his _prowess_, in the effort failed, _Deceit_ and _treachery_ must be employed.

The unbridled pa.s.sions of the human soul Linked with the crucifix in his emprise.

The lion, loosened and in full control-- The semblance of the Lamb to Aztlan's eyes: A faithful offspring of the Papish loins, The features of the Church in duplicate, Though baser metals pa.s.s for golden coins, Only earth's charity can make brave Cortez great.

But Montezuma conquers all our thought-- Tenocht.i.tlan and old Chapultepec.

No greener shrine for memory can be sought; The heart and conscience both alike bedeck The unfading spectre of a soul sincere, Who tugged at destiny against the dark-- The hand, unconscious, drops its laurels here.

His brown hands could not helm the fateful bark Against the baleful breakers of old Spain; Yet, who _is_ proof against the foils of men.

His life is but a psalmody of pain.

What soul unmoved can touch it with the pen?

The link that bound the old world with the new, With pure and patient hands, might been upturned, And every missing chapter brought to view By Clio gathered, and again inurned In history's cloister; Egypt and Aztlan Strike palms upon the bridges of the years; But Spain denies the privilege to man, And fills the vacuum with a nation's tears.

O Monarch of the fading, mighty past!

Great Montezuma! we are wed to thee.

Back of thy name the ocean is so vast That we can only write--Eternity, And leave the secret in thy broken breast.

We would that we could taken thy warm palm, Held out in welcome from the mellow West, And poured upon thy stricken life the balm Of real enlightenment; and point thee back, Over the ridges of the years, to G.o.d; To where your people lost the beaten track, And ever afterward were left to plod.

Those great sad eyes, once filled with light from Heaven, Would shone like diamonds when they found the way, And every fibre of thy nature striven To turn thy nation's darkness into day.

Alas! 'tis vain! we beat the empty air.

Our tears are mingled with thy wasting breath; We _all_ are torn with thy warm heart's despair, And mourn with Aztlan at thy fateful death.

CONCLUSION.

From sire to son the stern bequeathment falls Of some misguided action in the past, And, though our nature with the victim calls And we are smitten with his overcast, Still are we weak against the wheels of fate, Which leaves the pensioner thus desolate.

The by-ways of the father must turn back Sometime upon the highway that he left; Though dark and sinuous may be the track, And life of all its l.u.s.ter be bereft, Still hangs the heavy impulse on the soul, Unsatisfied, till it shall reach its goal.

The destiny was hard that brought proud Spain Upon the fading summerland of gold; Its retribution is no less a pain; The grip of fate, so pulseless and so cold, Brings back the shudder to the human heart; Humanity is wounded with _each_ part That feels the puncture of her cruel blade.

Nor is the censure less upon the hand That strikes _so_ hard to force the debt thus paid.

The tender conquest of some heathen land The brightest jewel is, of any crown-- G.o.d never licensed human hand to strike a foe when down.

When Spain's recruited army turned them back To glut their ire on Guatamozin's head, There never was a deeper furrowed track, More thickly cindered with the myriad dead; And when at last his b.l.o.o.d.y sceptre fell, Tenocht.i.tlan was likest to a h.e.l.l.

The brave barbarian was put to rack To force divulgence of his scattered gold.-- Is there a garment of a deeper black, To cover up the fingers that could hold Such h.e.l.lish orgies after all the past?

The palm is thine, O Spain! and hold it to the last!

Yet one more turn upon the screw of time: Thy red, right hand must slay this waif of fate; And thou must put the climax to the crime, And crush the heart thou has made desolate.

Enough! thou art the acme of the earth-- May G.o.d's great pity ever spare thy duplicated birth!

No, no, not Spain! _her_ better angel waits, And _has_ been waiting all these weary years For Castellar to open wide her gates, That she may wash her garments with her tears; But priestcraft, Rome, or demon, all the same-- That makes a desert of her rich champaign; And sends her forth through history, so tame.

It is, her evil genius; but it is not Spain.

As Kohen prophesied, their race was run-- Their error cleaved upon them as a curse; The fading phalanx of the Summer sun Has crossed the borders of the universe.

We only catch the shadow of their flight; They pa.s.s out with the sunset into night.

FOOTNOTES:

[D] Anahuac, the country dominated by the Aztecs at the time of the conquest.

[E] "Mars or Mexitli." I have taken the easier of the names given to the war-G.o.d. Huitzilopotchli or Mexitli both were used, the former more in general use than the latter, at the time of the conquest.

[F] Huit-zilo-potch-li, the Aztec war-G.o.d.

[G] Quetzalcoatl, the G.o.d of the harvest, probably some ancient leader deified. See Prescott.

[H] Tlappalan, the Elysian to which Quetzalcoatl pa.s.sed, probably referred to the chambers of the sun.

[I] Nez-a-hual-co-yotl, one of the famous kings of Tezcuco (a nation allied to that of the Aztecs). Prescott enlarges on his character, truly a wonderful one for the time and age.

[J] Montezuma, a corruption from the original Aztec, which was Moctheuzoma.

[K] Nez-a-hual-pil-li, successor to Neza-hual-co-yotl, and a worthy one, though not so gifted.

[L] Tecollas, Temples of worship.

[M] Caligula, a Roman Emperor whose name has become a synonym of crime.

[N] Courier, a courier came daily from the coast, and Couriers from different parts of the Empire; their only script was the picture prints; rude, it is true, and yet wonderful in conveying the different shades of meaning.

[O] Montezuma's protest against human sacrifice though not literally fact, so far as the historic record is concerned, is hazarded as not inconsistent with his historic character.

[P] Tlalocan, Prescott has not left on record the name of the High Priest, and the name given, I have thought in keeping with the Aztec language.

[Q] Teuhtlile, the Emba.s.sador sent to meet Cortez. He was high in the councils of the King.

[R] Malinche, Interpreter and Mistress of Cortez.

[S] Las Casas, a worthy Spanish Padre, who was constantly protesting against the villanous conduct of the cavaliers. Prescott pays him a glowing tribute.

[T] Te-noch-ti-tlan, the Aztec for the city of Mexico.

[U] Olmedo, a priest of that easy piety that characterized the cavalier, ready to grant absolution in case of all excesses.