Their victim, and the humbled Heroes saw
The orient sky, with smiles of rosy joy,
Welcome the coming of the new-born God.
O human once, now let not human-kind
Languish, and die in darkness !
Then didst thou pause to see the Hero race
Perish. In vain, with impious arms, they strove
Against thy will; in vain against thine orb
They shot their shafts; the arrows of their pride
Fell on themselves; they perish'd, to thy praise.
So perish still thine impious enemies,
O Lord of Day! But to the race devout,
Who offer up their morning sacrifice,
Honouring thy godhead, and with morning hymns,
And with the joy of music and of dance,
Welcome thy glad uprise, . . to them, O Sun,
Still let the fountain-streams of splendour flow,
Still smile on them propitious, thou whose smile
Is light and life and joyance! Once again,
Parent of Being, Prince of Glory, rise,
Begin thy course of beauty once again!
Such was their ancient song, as up the height Slowly they wound their way. The multitude Beneath repeat the strain; with fearful eyes They watch the spreading glories of the west! And when at length the hastening orb hath sunk Below the plain, such sinking at the heart They feel, as he who hopeless of return From his dear home departs. Still on the light, The last green light that lingers in the west,
Their looks are fasten d, till the clouds of night
Roll on, and close in darkness the whole heaven.
Then ceased their songs; then o'er the crowded vale
No voice of man was heard. Silent and still
They stood, all turn'd toward the east, in hope
There on the holy mountain to behold
The sacred fire, and know that once again
The Sun begins his stated round of years.
The Moon arose; she shone upon the lake, Which lay one smooth expanse of silver light; She shone upon the hills and rocks, and cast Upon their hollows and their hidden glens
A blacker depth of shade. Who then look'd round, Beholding all that mighty multitude,
Felt yet severer awe, · .. so solemnly still
The thronging thousands stood. The breeze was heard
That rustled in the reeds; the little wave,
That rippled to the shore and left no foam,
Sent its low murmurs far.
Have stretch'd their victim on the mountain-top;
A miserable man, his breast is bare,
Bare for the death that waits him; but no hand
May there inflict the blow of mercy. Piled
On his bare breast, the cedar boughs are laid;
On his bare breast, dry sedge and odorous gums
Laid ready to receive the sacred spark,
And blaze, to herald the ascending Sun,
Upon his living altar. Round the wretch
The inhuman ministers of rites accurst
Stand, and expect the signal when to strike
Their Chief, Tezozomoc,
Apart from all, upon the pinnacle
Of that high mountain, eastward turns his eyes;
For now the hour draws nigh, and speedily
He looks to see the first faint dawn of day
Break through the orient sky.
The multitude await the happy sign.
Long hath the midnight past, and every hour,
Yea every moment, to their torturing fears
Seem'd lengthen'd out, insufferably long.
Silent they stood, and breathless in suspense.
The breeze had fallen; no stirring breath of wind
Rustled the reeds. Oppressive, motionless,
It was a labour and a pain to breathe
The close, hot, heavy air... Hark! from the woods
The howl of their wild tenants! and the birds, . .
The day-birds, in blind darkness fluttering,
Fearful to rest, uttering portentous cries!
Anon, the sound of distant thunders came;
They peal beneath their feet. Earth shakes and
And lo! upon the sacred mountain's top,
The light.. the mighty flame! A cataract
Of fire bursts upward from the mountain-head, . .
High, . . high, . . it shoots! the liquid fire boils out;
It streams in torrents down! Tezozomoc
Beholds the judgement: wretched,.. wretched man,
On the upmost pinnacle he stands, and sees
The lava floods beneath him: and his hour
Is come. The fiery shower, descending, heaps
Red ashes round; they fall like drifted snows,
And bury and consume the accursed Priest.
The Tempest is abroad. Fierce from the North A wind uptears the lake, whose lowest depths Rock, while convulsions shake the solid earth. Where is Patamba? where the multitudes
Who throng'd her level shores? The mighty Lake Hath burst its bounds, and yon wide valley roars, A troubled sea, before the rolling storm.
THE MIGRATION OF THE AZTECAS.
THE storm hath ceased; but still the lava-tides
Roll down the mountain-side in streams of fire;
Down to the lake they roll, and yet roll on,
All burning, through the waters. Heaven above
Glows round the burning mount, and fiery clouds
Scour through the black and starless firmament.
Far off, the Eagle, in her mountain-nest,
Lies watching in alarm, with steady eye,
The midnight radiance.
But the storm hath ceased;
The earth is still; . . and lo! while yet the dawn
Is struggling through the eastern cloud, the barks
Of Madoc on the lake!
On yonder crag, all dripping from the flood
Who hath escaped its force? He lies along,
Now near exhaust with self-preserving toil,
And still his eye dwells on the spreading waves,
Where late the multitudes of Aztlan stood,
Collected in their strength. It is the King
Of Aztlan, who, extended on the rock,
Looks vainly for his people. He beholds
The barks of Madoc plying to preserve
The strugglers;.. but how few! upon the
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