Chapter 8

"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 gods 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 sturdy 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 gods 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 gods," 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 gods?"

"Repair thou to the coast, my good Teuhtlile, With plenteous retinue, and goodly stores; With cotton fabrics of the latest cast; With shields and cuirasses 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 gods, Yet must our moderation pave the way, Till we have fully compassed their intent."

So said, so done; the embassy 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 superstitions 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 superstitions were the ready springs The Spaniards played upon to break their hearts; Deceit, as damnable as serpents' stings, Barbed with its cruel spines their poisoned darts.

The embassy 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 God, And let their sturdy manhood for them plead, How ready could their faces been upturned, And hearts been melted into Christian mold!-- The brand of hell 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 God! 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 noble hands are left to hold The blazing palanquin. Like titled 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 God 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 appetite for him. 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 shore 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 superstition's beck. The Aztec's gods 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 superstition 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 assassin creeps into our hearts, And draws around him all their sanctities, 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 God, 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 superstition'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 God! thy thunderbolts were scarce. Why crushed they not this hell-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 masse 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 multitude, 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 multitude 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 pass 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 fagots of sweet Mary's reign-- These million martyrs, with their melting glance, Look at _his_ agony, across the sea, _Who_, blind in superstition, 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 gods. 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 assist 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.