THE LANDING OF THE SPANIARDS.

The Courier , 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 compass 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 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 god,

And lo! he now turns back from Tlapalan;

“And what must we, but welcome his advance?

Ye long have held me kindred of the gods;

Yet I deny me what your partial eyes

Have kenned upon my unassuming face.

I am as other men, though more advanced;

And if great Quetzalcoatl takes back my crown,

I bow in humble vassalage 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 gods.

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 space

That whispers its avengement on the air.

Our gods have brought us victory,‘ tis true;

And yet, great Nezahualcoyotl did spurn

The shedding of all human blood, to gods;

And when great Quetzalcoatl was on the earth,

Our gods were satisfied with other blood.

The angels of the mighty past cry out

Against the damning practice. Why not now,

“For once and all, wash off our bloody hands?

These human cries pierce farther than we know;

These human souls may ride into the sun;

We cannot claim his broad, uncumbered breast,

To the exclusion of the rest of earth.

The god 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,

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 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 :

“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 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.