On his head he wore the laurel,
And upon his boots there glitter’d
Golden spurs,—but notwithstanding
He was neither knight nor hero.
He was but a robber captain,
Who within the book of glory
Wrote with his own wicked hand
His own wicked name of—Cortez.
Underneath Columbus’ name he
Wrote his own,—yes, close beneath it,
And the schoolboy at his lessons
Learns by heart both names together.
After Christopher Columbus
He now names Fernando Cortez,
As the second greatest man
In the new world’s proud Pantheon.
Heroes’ fate’s last stroke of malice!
That our name should thus be coupled
With the name of a vile scoundrel
In the memory of mortals!
Were’t not better e’en to perish
All unknown, than draggle with it
Through eternity’s long ages
Such a name in comradeship?
Master Christopher Columbus
Was a hero,—and his temper,
That was pure as e’en the sunlight,
Was as gen’rous in addition.
Many people much have given,
But Columbus to the world
Hath a world entire imparted,
And ’tis call’d America.
He had not the power to free us
From our dreary earthly prison,
But he managed to enlarge it
And our heavy chain to lengthen.
Mortals thankfully revere him,
Being, not of Europe only,
But of Africa and Asia,
Equally quite sick and weary.
One alone, one hero only
Gave us more and gave us better
Than Columbus—that one mean I
Who a God bestow’d upon us.
His old father’s name was Amram,
And his mother’s Jochebed,
And himself, his name was Moses,
And he is my greatest hero.
But, my Pegasus, thou’rt loitering
Far too long with this Columbus;
Know thou that our flight to-day is
With the lesser man,—with Cortez.
So extend thy colour’d pinions,
Wingèd steed! and carry me
To the new world’s beauteous country
That they Mexico entitle.
Carry me to yonder castle,
Which the monarch Montezuma
Kindly offer’d to his Spanish
Guests, to be their habitation.
Not mere food and shelter only
In extravagant profusion
Gave the prince these foreign strollers,—
Presents rich and precious also,
Valuable, wrought with cunning,
All of massive gold, and jewels,
Bear gay witness to the monarch’s
Generosity and favour.
This uncivilised, unlearned,
Superstitious, blinded heathen
Still believed in faith and honour,
And the sacredness of guest-right.
He accepted a proposal
To be present at a banquet
That the Spaniards in their castle
Wish’d to give, to do him honour.
And with all his court attendants
Came the inoffensive monarch
Kindly to the Spanish quarters,
Where by trumpets he was greeted.
What they call’d the entertainment
Know I not. ’Twas very likely
“Spanish Truth!” of which the author’s
Name was Don Fernando Cortez.
Cortez gave the signal—straightway
They attack’d the peaceful monarch,
And they bound him and retain’d him
In the castle as a hostage.
But poor Montezuma died there,
And the dam was broken down
Which the bold adventurers
From the people’s wrath protected.
Terribly began the tempest;
Like a wild and furious ocean
Raved and bluster’d ever nearer
The excited human billows.
Valiantly in truth the Spaniards
Drove the tempest back. But daily
Was the castle fresh blockaded,
And the conflict was exhausting.
When the King was dead, the convoys
Of provisions ceased entirely;
In proportion as the rations
Shorter grew, each face grew longer.
With long faces on each other
Gazed the sons of Spain with sadness,
And they sigh’d, when they bethought them
Of their cosy Christian dwellings
In their cherish’d fatherland,
Where the pious bells were ringing,
And upon the hearth there bubbled
Peaceful olla podridas,
Thickly studded with garbanzos,
Under which, with waggish fragrance
Chuckling famously, were hidden
Those dear garlic sausages.
Then the leader held a council,
And upon retreat decided;
On the following morn at daybreak
Was the force to leave the city.
Easy ’twas for clever Cortez
Cunningly to gain an entrance,
But retreat to terra firma
Offer’d fatal obstacles.
Mexico, the island city,
In a mighty lake is founded,
In the middle, wave-surrounded:
E’en a haughty water fortress,
With the continent connected
But by ships and rafts and bridges,
Which repose on piles gigantic,
Little islands forming forts.
’Twas before the sun had risen
That their march began the Spaniards
Not a single drum was beaten,
Not a trumpeter was blowing.
’Twas their object not to waken
From their quiet sleep their hosts—
(For a hundred thousand Indians
Were encamp’d in Mexico).
Yet without his host the Spaniard
Reckon’d, when his plans he settled;
For the Mexicans had risen
Earlier still to-day than he had.
On the rafts and on the bridges,
On the forts they all were waiting,
That they to their guests might offer
Then and there the parting cup.
On the rafts and forts and bridges
Ha! a frantic banquet follow’d;
In red torrents stream’d the blood,
And the bold carousers struggled,—
Struggled, body press’d to body,
And we see on many naked
Indian breasts the arabesque
Of the Spanish arms imprinted.
’Twas a throttling and a choking
And a butchery that slowly,
Sadly slowly, roll’d still onward
Over rafts and forts and bridges.
Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’d
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.
Fighting thus in narrow passes
Small to-day the’ advantage lying
In old Europe’s strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.
Many Spaniards in addition
With the gold were heavy laden,
Lately captured or extorted—
Ah! that yellow load of sin
Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,
And the devilish metal proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.
And meanwhile the lake around them
With canoes and barks was cover’d;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.
True they hit in the confusion
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.
On the third bridge fell at last
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin’s image.
E’en this image’ self was struck
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart,—bright arrows,
Like those swords of golden colour
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday’s sad procession.
Gaston, when he died, made over
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez
Seized himself the precious banner,
He, the leader, and he bore it
On his steed till tow’rd the evening,
When the fight at length was over.
On that day a hundred Spaniards
Fell, and sixty in addition;
Eighty more alive were taken
By the Indians’ cruel hands.
Many of them sorely wounded,
Who ere long their breath surrender’d
And a dozen horses, too, were
Partly kill’d and partly captured.
Cortez and his army only
Just at evening gain’d the shelter
Of the shore, a seacoast planted
Niggardly with weeping willows.