Of battle, iron men, impassible,
Stood in our strength unbroken. Marvel not
If then the brave felt fear, already impressed
That day by ominous thoughts, to fear akin;
For so it chanced, high heaven ordaining so,
The king, who should have led his people forth,
At the army head as they began their march,
Was with sore sickness striken; and the stroke
Came like the act and arm of very God,
So suddenly, and in that point of time.
A gallant man was he, who, in his stead,
That day commanded Aztlan; his long hair,
Tufted with many a cotton lock, proclaimed
Of princely prowess many a feat atchieved,
In many a field of fame. Oft had he led
The Aztecas, with happy fortune, forth;
Yet could not now Yuhidthiton inspire
His host with hope: he, not the less, that day,
True to his old renown, and in the hour
Of rout and ruin with collected mind,
Sounded his signals shrill, and in the voice
Of loud reproach, and anger, and brave shame,
Called on the people. . . But when nought availed,
Seizing the standard from the timid hand
Which held it in dismay, alone he turned,
For honourable death resolved, and praise
That would not die. Thereat the braver chiefs
Rallied, anew their signals rung around,
And Aztlan, seeing how we spared her flight,
Took heart, and rolled the tide of battle back.
But when Cadwallon from the chieftain's grasp
Had cut the standard staff away, and stunned
And stretched him at his mercy on the field;
Then fled the enemy in utter rout,
Broken, and quelled at heart. One chief alone
Bestrode the body of Yuhidthiton;
Bareheaded did young Malinal bestride
His brother's body, wiping from his brow
With the shield-hand the blinding blood away,
And dealing franticly, with broken sword,
Obstinate wrath, the last resisting foe.
Him, in his own despite, we seized and saved.
Then, in the moment of our victory,
We purified our hands from blood, and knelt,
And poured to heaven the grateful prayer of praise,
And raised the choral psalm. Triumphant thus
To the hills we went our way; the mountaineers
With joy, and dissonant song, and antic dance;
The captives sullenly, deeming that they went
To meet the certain death of sacrifice,
Yet stern and undismayed. We bade them know, Ours was a law of mercy and of love;
We healed their wounds, and set the prisoners free. Bear ye, quoth I, my bidding to your King!
Say to him, Did the Stranger speak to thee
The words of truth, and hath he proved his power?
Thus saith the Lord of Ocean, in the name
Of God, Almighty, Universal God,
Thy Judge and mine, whose battles I have fought,
Whose bidding I obey, whose will I speak ;
Shed thou no more, in impious sacrifice,
The life of man; restore into the grave
The dead Tepollomi; set this people free,
peace shall be between us.
Came messengers from Aztlan, in reply.
Coanocotzin with sore malady
Hath, by the Gods, been stricken: will the Lord
Of Ocean visit his sick-bed?.. He told
Of wrath, and as he said, the vengeance came:
Let him bring healing now, and stablish peace.
AGAIN, and now with better hope, I sought
The city of the King: there went with me
Iolo, old Iolo, he who knows
The virtue of all herbs of mount or vale,
Or greenwood shade, or quiet brooklet's bed;
Whatever lore of science, or of song,
Sages and Bards of old have handed down.
Aztlan that day poured forth her swarming sons,
To wait my coming. Will he ask his God
To stay the hand of anger? was the cry,
The general cry, . . and will he save the King?
Coanocotzin too had nurst that thought,
And the strong hope upheld him he put forth
His hand, and raised a quick and anxious eye, . •
Is it not peace and mercy?
?.. thou art come
To pardon and to save!
That power, O King of Aztlan, is not mine!
Such help as human cunning can bestow,
Such human help I bring; but health and life
Are in the hand of God, who at his will
Gives or withdraws; and what he wills is best.
Then old Iolo took his arm, and felt
The symptom, and he bade him have good hope,
For life was strong within him. So it proved;
The drugs of subtle virtue did their work;
They quelled the venom of the malady,
And from the frame expelled it, . . that a sleep
Fell on the king, a sweet and natural sleep,
And from its healing he awoke refreshed,
Though weak, and joyful like a man who felt
The peril past away.
Of concord, and how best to knit the bonds
Of lasting friendship. When we won this land,
Coanocotzin said, these fertile vales
Were not, as now, with fruitful groves embowered,
Nor rich with towns and populous villages,
Abounding, as thou seest, with life and joy :
Our fathers found bleak heath, and desert moor,
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