Izram, a Mexican Tale; and other Poems.

Izram, a Mexican Tale; and other Poems.Charlotte Elizabeth, 1790‐1846Leigh Rios,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition218 KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162002CharEIzram

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series98Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorIzram, a Mexican tale; and other poemsCharlotte Elizabeth Published by James NisbetLondon, 1826[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:966. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:966mf.]

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[Title page]

IZRAM,A MEXICAN TALE;AND OTHER POEMS.BYCHARLOTTE ELIZABETH,AUTHOR OF OSRIC, &c.DEDICATED, BY PERMISSION, TOHER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF BEAUFORT.PUBLISHED BY JAMES NISBET,21, BERNERS STREET, LONDON.M.DCCC.XXVI.Dennett, Leather Lane, London.TOHER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF BEAUFORT,

WHOSE HIGH RANK AND EXALTED STATIONTEND MORE CONSPICUOUSLY TO DISPLAYTHOSE ENDOWMENTS OF CHRISTIAN HUMILITY,ANDTHAT ABUNDANT FRUIT OF GOOD WORKS,WHICH,SPRINGING FROM FAITH,BY THEIR EXAMPLE WIN TO OBEDIENCE,THIS VOLUMEIS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,BY HER GRACE'SVERY GRATEFUL HUMBLE SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR.

The circumstances of the following Story may be supposed to have occurred a considerable time previous to the great struggle for independence in South America.

ERRATUM.Page 190, line 13, for 'river' read 'riven'IZRAM.CANTO I."YE verdant shades, that gently bowYour welcome o'er this throbbing brow,And soft beneath my burning treadIn flowery moss a carpet spread,Joyous I hail sweet nature's throne,Untainted by the breath of men;These echoes know no mortal tone,No step unhallowed prints the glen;All silent, save the feathery throat,Warbling its wild untutored note,The rustling leaf, and fluttering wing,And murmurs of this cooling spring,Whose silver tides their freshness roll,Like mercy to a parching soul."So spake the pilgrim youth, who strayedTo where those limpid waters played;Laid his light musquet on the bank,Bowed with uncovered head, and drank.Ere from the stream his lip can part,A savage growl, resounding nigh,Thrills through the traveller's beating heart;Starting he views the blood‐shot eye:The jaguar in his wrath is there,The red ball rolls its fiery glare,But threats not him:—beneath the shadeThe victim in repose is laid;Native his garb,—while zephyr sighedO'er his young cheek, and fanned his rest,Waving the ringlet's glossy pride,And sporting with the lightsome vest,Death from his ambush marked the prey;A moment—he wakes no more:The murderer bares, in dread array,Those grinding fangs to quaff his gore;Type of the lurking foes, who scanThe heedless hour of dreaming man!But help is nigh—with purpose true,Swift to its aim, a death‐shot flew;The howling monster ploughs the wood,And tracks it with a stream of blood.Upstarts the sleeper, lightnings flashBeneath the long and sable lash:"Iberian blood‐hound! darest thou creep,Thou soul of crime, on sacred sleep?"The glittering dirk is brandished high,But all unmoved the pilgrim stands:"No blood‐bound, no Iberian I,—My breath was drawn from fairer lands,Where treachery lurks not: lo, the deedThat succoured thee at utmost need,Yet moves thine ire." The fact was plain,The branches rent, the crimson stain,Dying the spot where couched the foe,And roots uptorn, their comment shew.A rapid glance that scene surveys,Then meets the traveller's stedfast gaze."Too scant the grace to bid thee live,Stranger, I did thee wrong—forgive:Well hast thou 'scaped my knife; the meedIs to thy birth, and not thy deed.I ween this bold exploit was shewnLess for my safety than thine own.Yet what thy nation? quickly tell;This alien tongue of pompous Spain,Detested accent! suits thee well;Beware thou dally not—'twere vain.""Thy speech is rude; I answer notFrom cold compulsive fear; I knowThe galling chain, the bitter lot,That bids thy country writhe in woe:Britons can bend in pitying love,Where threats nor daunt, nor perils move.""And art thou of that island race?Methinks their lineaments I trace;Thy bearing lacks the fiendish prideOf arrogance with craft allied:I like thee well—thou shalt with me;—Yet ere we wend in peace along,Endure one test in courtesy,—Suspicion is the child of wrong—Somewhat of English speech I know."The youth complies with willing smile,Freely the dear‐loved accents flowThat echo through his sea‐girt isle."Then thus I sheath my trusty blade,And plight a hand that ne'er betrayed,Though rightful meed, with biting steel,It erst hath dealt, and yet shall deal.Izram, whose soul the dart hath torn,Yet hurls it back with double scorn;Izram the wronged, who ever yetWith full arrear hath paid the debtOf human hate, nor shrinking swervedFrom vengeful deed—by thee preserved,In grateful guerdon shall not fail,If hand or counsel aught avail.""I take thy proffer, freely made;Conduct me to thy dwelling's shade;Fain would I rest till morning's ray,For I have trod a toilsome way:Entangled here, thy better skillMay guide me to the distant hill,The eastern mount, whose borders sweepEven to the rude and briny deep."The Briton meets with placid heedThe piercing glance that fain would readHis inmost thought. "The choice is newTo wind this dreary forest through,When broad, beyond its utmost bound,Lies many a league of beaten ground.What lured thee from th' accustomed road,To pierce the serpent's dark abode?Methinks it were for reason good,If man prefer this wildering wood.""I marvel not such pathway soughtShould waken a mistrustful thought;But while at ease our frames are laidBeneath this aloe's beauteous shade,Hear thou my story, sad and brief:—Thou know'st the creed of erring Spain,Whose votaries clasp in blind beliefThe dreams of a distempered brain,And deem the corn that crowns the sodTransmuted to the living God."In our fair isle the Lord hath given,Unerring guide! the light from heaven;It gleams from forth the written page,On clown and noble, youth and age:Taught by the rule of truth, we turnFrom fabling tales, the idol spurn,And, holding fast th' eternal word,Confess no Saviour but the Lord."Twin brothers, linked in two‐fold band,Peaceful we sought this fatal strand,Nor dreamt such murderous hate could shameThe beauty of the Christian name.Soon were we marked, through every sceneOur steps were traced, the watch was set,But still in act and purpose clean,We trampled on the viewless net."At length, on some high festal day,Heedless we urged our wonted way:The host was there, the blinded crowdBefore their senseless idol bowed,And bent the knee, and drooped the head,In homage to a god of bread.Erect amid the prostrate throng,We bore us, as it passed along;With deafening shouts the clamour rose,And fiercely pressed our bigot foes;We could not kneel: the Lord hath spoke,And cursed is each idol yoke."One, deep in crime as high in place,Blot of his office and his race,With frantic rage his poniard drew,And aimed it with a thrust so true,That ere I heaved a second breath,My brother's eyes were dark in death.""Remorseless fiend! accursed blow!""The Christian doth not curse a foe;No, not such foe as he, who stoodRed in young Ulric's streaming blood,Nor sated with one harmless life,Upraised o'er me the murderous knife.But Heaven was pleased to spare—I fled,Turned hitherward my dubious tread,And sure had passed thy slumbers by,But for the jaguar's threatening eye,That marked thee for his prey. I craveThy guidance toward the eastern wave,Where haply floats, beside the strand,Some banner of my native land.""Izram hath sworn, and he will bideIn truth and fealty by thy side.But say, for well my soul doth kenThe brood of yon Iberian den,What name hears he, the hound of death,Who checked thy brother's vital breath?""Almarez Gondolph, high in rank,"—Upstarting from the mossy bank,With arm extended Izram stood, Like the roused monarch of the wood:His eye‐balls shot with crimson fire,Each reddening feature flushed with ire,While joy's triumphant wildness shoneIn the stern glance, and swelled the tone."Now hear, thou blazing god of day,Unfaltering in thy destined way,Who rollest on thy fiery path,Blasting the rebel climes in wrath,Frowning to wither, blight, destroy,Or beaming light, and life, and joy;And hear ye clouds, that, hurrying past,Waft spirits wild on storm and blast;Ye demons, who delight to dwellIn the dark wave's tumultuous swell,Or, wrapped in subterranean fire,Work your fierce will in quenchless ire;Hear, and attest, in murmurs deep,The vow of vengeance ne'er to sleep:Proclaim in thunder, seal in blood,The tie of vengeful brotherhood!"Once more beneath the branches flung,The traveller's shrinking hand he wrung:"I deemed not mortal man should dareIn wrongs so deep, so dark, as mine,In luxury so rich, to share;But, Briton, lo the cup is thine,The draught of sweet revenge to drain,Till not one lingering drop remain.I've spread a wilier snare to‐day,Than e'er enclosed the beast of prey:Before another sun be set,Thou'lt view the quarry in the net.I thought not to endure thy feetWithin my deep unseen retreat;But we are brothers, I have said,And waked the hope I will not mock;Thy kindred blood on Gondolph's bladeShall be thy pass through flood and rock;And from that rock thine arm may sweepHis mangled carcase to the deep.""Now shame upon thee, man of death!I told thee that I cursed him not;And shall I dye my Christian faithWith crimson taint, satanic blot?Far as the space from pole to poleBe murderous thought from Albert's soul!Nor shall such deed thy dwelling stain,O Mexican, nor foul thy hand,Till prayer, and faith, and zeal be vain,To pluck away one burning brand.""I like thy heat; in this I view,Fool though thou be, thy tale is true;If false, thou hadst not crossed me yet:But, true or false, my steel is whet.There's candour on thy quiet brow,I neither doubt nor fear thee now.Proceed, a sheltering roof is nigh,And while my cares thy need supply,My lip shall link that blood‐hound's nameWith the full record of his shame."Then rising, with elastic tread,Through many a winding path he led,Free as the gamesome steed, whose maneNe'er drooped beneath controuling rein;And Albert, in the step of pride,The form of lightness, mein of grace,Might almost deem his youthful guideA sylvan shape of fabled race.Some twenty summer suns had shedTheir ripening fires on Izram's head;His hue confessed the tawny glow,Born of a fierce and fervid ray,But pale and clear the polished brow,Where ebon locks disordered stray:And ever as impatientlyAside their silken veil was thrown,Beneath its curve the glancing eye,Like lightning from the midnight sky,In awful beauty shone.Something there was that mutely told,No vulgar stamp was graven here;An impress cast in finer mould,And nurtured in a gentler sphere,Than might beseem those captive plains,Crushed in Iberia's pond'rous chains.Narrow and low the hut arose,A summer bower for short repose,Yet fenced around with thorn and stake,From prowling foes that haunt the brake.Roofed with the broad palmetto leaf,That fan‐like o'er the rafters spread,And crested as a warrior chief,Beneath its light and plumy head.Amid the flower‐wove lattice playThe quivering shade and stealing ray;Floating on zephyr's liquid sigh,A thousand dazzling forms are nigh,That in the brilliant blaze unfoldTheir gossamer besprent with gold.There hums the insect bird, who gleamsGlorious as day's departing beams;Beneath the proud papilio pressed,The blossom bends its burdened crest;He steps the flower, a conscious king,Or fans the bud with gorgeous wing;And not a breeze can hover nigh,But teems with blended harmony;As every leaf were vocal grown,And breathed a descant all its own,While bowed the palm with princely head,And wide a guardian shadow spread.A simple couch of fragrant leaves,In purple cased, each guest receives;And Izram, from his secret hoard,Profusely heaps the bending boardWith all the tempting fruits that lieMellowing beneath a genial sky;And while their tints commingling glowed,A juice nectareous sparkling flowed,In shells of cocoa, richly boundWith hoops of burnished gold around.With winning grace, in courtly guise,The Mexican his comrade plies;Selecting oft, with studious care,The choicest of their woodland fare;With mirthful thought, and sportive smile,Cheering their sweet repast the while."Inhale this cooling draught again;Methinks those whiskered Dons would drainThe luscious stream with bolder swell;And if the goblet 'scaped, 'twere well.""Too tempting shines the glittering ore:What if their ken the scene explore?"Dark radiance flashed from Izram's eye,Lightly he touched his dagger's hilt,And smiled; "Perchance, in deeper dye,The rash intruder's hide were gilt,Ere his profaning touch should tearThe meanest flower that blushes there.""How freely in the mortal strifeThy hand can sport with human life!I would not ape thy deadly skill,Purveyor to the yawning tomb;Nor hurl a spirit, reeking stillWith crime, to its eternal doom.""And yet, were wildest peril near,No flincher thou: I've watched thine eye,And not a mist of earthly fearHath clouded that calm azure sky.By thy bold deed preserved, I longTo call thee friend: our years the same,If right I guess; in danger, wrong,United; branded both with shame;Thou for thy Christian faith, and IFor unsold truth and loyalty."Gone was the hour of lightsome glee,His brow grew stern with bitter thought,That like a sullen wintry seaIn mystery and darkness wrought.Still, as to quell the rising pain,His lips the sparkling goblet drain;His glance emits the gloomy fireOf restless care and feverish ire.Albert beheld, his gen'rous heartIn secret wept the exile's smart;He shuddered o'er a soul so young,By murderous hate to vengeance stung,And yearned upon his thorny wayTo pour the beam of gospel‐day.But Izram, on his couch reclined,With graceful gesture half arose;His waving locks are flung behind,His cheek with proud emotion glows,In measured phrase the accents ran,And thus the tale of wrong began."Know'st thou Chiapa's soil, where riseWrecks of a glorious edifice?Offspring of kingly sires, who shoneOn Mexico's unconquered throne,Or, ranged upon her island shore,Purpled the lake with princely gore.Uprooted from their beauteous land,Once more engrafted, and taught to thriveBeneath Las Casas' pitying hand,Who bade the drooping bough revive,Till, like their own Vanilla, veiledIn mystery from the race accursed,Again their weeping country hailedHer royal stems, in secret nursed.Even now, upon Chiapa's plain,Our ancient arts in freedom reign:The deathless wreath fair science gives,Full many a young Cazique receives;Known but to them whose dearest prideWere to lie slaughtered near his side.Not these the upstart race, who reignBy sufferance of the crafty foe,Exalted from the base‐born train,To specious power and gilded show;But sons of those illustrious dead,Who, each a warlike nation's head,With royal banner wide unrolled,Twice fifty thousand warriors ledTo battle for the isle of gold."To boast were vain; I will not tellWhat streams in these blue channels swell;The deed may shew:—no vulgar ireCan feed so broad, so calm a flame,Nor aught but princely hate aspireTo quarries of such noble game.The deed shall shew:—another night,And vengeance waves her torch in light."Embosomed in a peaceful vale,There dwelt—but wherefore spin the tale?"—A flush was on his frowning brow,And fast the hurried accents flow:—" 'Tis nought to thee who trained my mind,The hater now of human kind,I say but, of the hours I've known,That once they were, and they are flownPast, past—they come not if I would"—He drained the cup, and then pursued."It was 'mid life's unfolding charm,When hopes are high and hearts are warm,And young ambition, aiming wide,Would grasp the world to prop his pride,A guest, with wiles of Satan fraught,Chiapa's peaceful dwellings sought;A Jesuit,—of Iberia's race,—Inquisitor,—a monk of place,—Vile titles all:—to add another,Yet viler, he was Gondolph's brother.He marked me, and he won my earWith tales wild boyhood loves to hear;I knew not then what hidden baitLured him in me to seek his fate;But thus it seems—my birth was high,And many watched my destiny:Child as I was, I oft had sateWith those who rule our free‐born state,Whose secret counsels may not passBeyond the threefold bolts of brass:Some note of this had lately sped,—Oppression will not lack its spies,Nor tyranny forget to dreadThe mustering tempest ere it rise.Unwelcome rumours quickly flee,The tidings Priest Anselmo heard,And when he spread the twig for me,Deemed he might lime a chattering bird.So, while his flatteries won my ken,And lured me to the Spanish den,My treason was the corner‐stoneHe built his towering hopes upon.Izram a traitor!"—Then he laughed In bitterness, and freely quaffed:—"No, not to them—O never, never,Could tongue of guile or forceful hand,The syren, or the dungeon, severHer Izram from his own sweet land:Blighted this arm, if ere it flingsDishonour on the race of kings!"In furtherance of their sage design,The Spanish seers received me well,And, deep in learning's fruitful mine,For me they ope'd the secret cell.I needs must laugh,—how, day by day,They laboured on the rugged way,And placed within my eager claspWhate'er my spirit longed to grasp:No page of all their classic lore,But I had conned it o'er and o'er,And from the tomes of history tornNew fuel for my burning scorn,Ere yet the purblind fools could dareTo deem me wrapped within the snare.And still misgivings vexed their mind,A firmer tie the demons twined;O would my tongue had never movedTo tell it! Albert, hast thou loved?—Enough, enough; that broken sigh,And mantling cheek, too well reply.It matters not; I will not bendMy thought to such bewildering theme,My spurning soul hath learned to rendThe shreds of that deceitful dream;Nor could thy tranquil spirit pineIn love so wild, so deep as mine.The sorcerers hoped this potent spellThe patriot throb should lightly quell,This master‐passion in my breast,Like Aaron's rod, engulf the rest;If e'er their eyes His page explored,Whom they in blasphemy adored."Now Gondolph joined the robber bandWho gnaw the vitals, wring the land.Thou know'st, perchance, each plundering toolIs licenced to a short‐lived rule:Three summers, decked in pomp and pride,They rack our race, our treasure drain,Then, wafted o'er th' indignant tide,Disgorge the spoil in hungry Spain.Long had this Gondolph ruled unseenThe movements of a vast machine;The guerdon of his toils to glean,He ploughed at length the azure deep:—Oh, by this sickle, bright and keen,A plenteous harvest he shall reap!"His was the crafty wile, that snaredThe heedless Mexican to rove;His wizard hand the spell prepared,Of lofty lore, and witching love:And blithely now the traitor came,To light the pile with sulph'rous flame.In courteous guise, with flattering word,He led me to the festal board:Trained to his beck, the servile throngThe revel and debauch prolong;While he, with cool observance, soughtIn cobweb coil to snare the thought;Essayed—the wine‐cup freely plied—To wake the slumbering chord of pride;But all was vain, no word revealedThe charge in patriot honour sealed.Baffled and chafed, the tyger scowled,And hourly in my pathway prowled,And oft in joyous scorn I threwSome mocking hope before his view,Till, weary of the secret snare,He laid his shameless purpose bare.A life, with wealth and greatness crowned,Ev'n to ambition's utmost bound,This was the bribe; the threat was shame,The taint of slander's foulest breath,A curse attached to Izram's nameAmong his race, and lingering death."I know not how my scorn might blaze;He quailed and shook beneath the gaze:And when, in proud indignant strain,I hurled the treason back on Spain,His lurking blood‐hounds seized their prey,And bore me from the light of day,Chained with the felon crew, who pineCondemned within the deadliest mine.Robber and murderer, side by side,In groans and blood their labour plied—Seest thou the scar those fetters wrought?His look shall wither on the spot."Nor yet the crafty fox resignedThat dream of his besotted mind;Still came the lure, the menace, stillHe thought to bend my stedfast will:He blighted my fair fame, and she,Chord of my heart, its vital tide,Compelled to wed a vile Mestee,Became the motley mongrel's bride.Anselmo's self the tale conveyed,And well his generous zeal I paid:Too weak the cowl to guard his brainFrom the fierce dash of severed chain;And while they thronged around the dead,Goaded by maddening thought, I spedUntil the distant glimmering rayPointed to liberty and day.I found a faithful few:—the restIs doubly sealed within my breast:I doubt not thee, but oaths confineThose secrets to our ancient line:Yet if thy British nerve can braveThe horrors of an outlaw's cave,And if thy strength, in peril tried,Can boldly breast a swelling tide,Soon shall thy gladdened sight surveyGondolph, by counter‐wiles betrayed,Groaning his blackened soul away,An offering to thy brother's shade.""My brother's shade hath soared, to restIn the calm mansions of the blest;And there, at his Redeemer's throne,He joins the rapturous song of praise,To Him who hears the sinner's groan,Jesus, whose pardoning love is shewnTo ruined man's rebellious race.And deem'st thou—if his spirit shareIn aught of sublunary care—My Ulric would not rather fleeOn seraph wing to ward the blow,And plead, by Him who died for thee,For mercy on the prostrate foe?""Forbear thy mockery, tongue of pride!For me that Saviour never died.Thou preaching friar forbear, and say,My proffered courtesy dost thou take,Till twice return the morning ray,With me thy fixed abode to make?""Aye, Izram, and to save thy soulThe bitter fruit of deed so foul;My wrong is deep, far deeper thine,But vengeance is the work of God:O let thy hand this task resign,Submit thee to the chastening rod.Revenge to carnal lip is sweet,But kills the soul with pois'nous breath;And thou, impenitent, wilt meetThe wages of eternal death.""Izram can neither pause nor fear;His sin, if such the term, hath storedThe wrath of Heaven in long arrear,And justice must unsheath the sword,She still a deeper debt may owe—But truce with this, the sun is low;I pledge thee in a sweeter draughtThan yet thy thirsty lip hath quaffed:Recline on yonder couch, and steepThy feverish frame in cooling sleep:Trust me, no cause for doubt or dreadWhile Izram watches nigh thy bed.I love thy race—they never boreA blood‐stained trophy from my shore,Save when the daring Buccaneer,Scourge of the tyrants, hovered nigh,And woke the Spaniard's startled ear,With the fierce midnight battle‐cry.Thou dost not fear to speak me plain,To cross me in my angry vein;Nor dost thou shame to kneel and pray:"—Shading his sight, he turned away,And Albert, with unruffled breast,Composed his weary limbs to rest.CANTO II.SWEET his repose, but strangely newThe waking scene; no lowly shed,No waving forest caught his view;A wide and vaulted cavern threwIts mighty arch above his head.A glimmering lamp in scanty floodDispersed its light, and Izram stood,Folding his mantle round his breast,Half veiled in the sepulchral gloom,With thoughtful brow, and head depressed,Viewing the couch of peaceful rest,Like sculpture on a costly tomb."Wak'st thou, my friend?" the pensive tone,That sorrow might have called her own,Low as the ring‐dove's plaintive sound,By echoes caught, above, around,Rang through the caves, and died awayIn cadence like a funeral lay."Izram! explain this magic spell.""No magic, but the needful guileOf souls oppressed; I watched thee well,And practised nought but friendly wile.Here is my palace, this my throne,A regal court, as thou shalt own,When my assembled hoards bespeakThe treasury of a young Cazique."Smiling, yet sad, he spoke, and drewA drapery's heavy fold aside;Broad gleams of distant radiance threwA steady lustre far and wide."Arise, the sun is high and bright,But never shot his living lightWithin these vaults: dark as the fameOf Mexico, they need the toilOf secret hands to raise the flame,And oft renew the wasting oil.Above, oppression's shaft is hurled,Below, the infant fires are nursed,That, should the struggling splendours burst,With blazing flag shall cow the world.Tyrants engross the sunny sky,Be ours the den and liberty!"With stately port, and echoing tread,Through the long widening vault he led;Passed a low arch, and dark alcove:—Where hath the spell our pilgrim borne?Such wild illusion ne'er was woveIn the fantastic dream of morn.They stood beneath a lofty dome,Meet for the fabled genii's home;The giant roof, bestud with spars,Shone as a host of distant stars.Here, crystal columns, shooting high,Dazzle and pain the blinking eye;There, glowing as with secret fire,Slight shafts of wreathing gold aspire.Framed by the fairest rules of art,From every secret nook they start;New treasures to the gaze unfold,—Gold was the couch, the table gold;Wrought by the craftsman's cunning hand,In bright confusion, close array,Flagons, and bowls, and vases stand,And on their burnished sides displayThe swelling fruit, or garland fair;—The very least that glittered thereHad been an ample bribe, to gainSome kingly suit from grasping Spain.Quiver and bow and breast‐plate hungStandards and feathery tufts among;And sun‐like orbs too well revealThe deadly dint of forceful steel;While pigmy plumes, of matchless dyes,Combined in graphic beauty, rise,Implanting in that rocky denThe charms of mountain, mead, and glen.Izram beneath his dark lash stoleA glance, to read his comrade's soul."What say'st thou, Albert, canst thou showIn thy fair isle so rich a throne?Nay, answer not; full well I knowShe calls one glorious gem her own,A jewel fraught with deathless rays,Whose faintest sparkles far outblazeTen thousand gaudy scenes like this:Freedom and faith—O dream of bliss!"He paused, and slowly raising upFrom the bright board a costly cup,Viewed it a while, then fiercely flungOn the firm floor that beaming gold;Their peals the clamorous echoes rung,While to the utmost side it rolled."I loathe the yellow dross, it hurledMy fathers from a lordly throne,Ev'n as that bruised ore is whirledAlong the ruthless stone.Metal accursed! my brethren pine,Through thee, beneath an iron rod,Deep in the pestilential mine,O'er which their sires in glory trod.Now could I dash from side to sideThe fragments of this scenic pride;But they have work to do, to sting,Ev'n to his very inmost soul,That Gondolph, that compounded thingOf wile and avarice:—we will tollThe death‐knell on his shrinking ear,Amid the splendid mockeries here:Here, where his eye could never sateWith gazing, we will seal his fate;And I, the fettered slave, who drewA length of chain in pois'nous mine,Will blight the tyrant's wildered viewIn garb befitting regal line.Thou, too, shalt glitter bright, in gemsMeet for imperial diadems:Weave diamonds in thy clustering hair,Like stars on evening's folding wing,And on thy very sandals bearThe ransom of an eastern king.""No gems for me."—"And wherefore thwartEach purpose of my labouring heart?"—"Nay, Izram, smooth thy brow, nor deemI cross thy will in sullen mood;But how shall rich array beseem,Or brilliants pour their sparkling beam,Amid the specks of kindred blood?Scarce dry upon my conscious vestThe stream that welled from Ulric's breast;Behold!"—''The hour of doom is near,Let vengeance stay that bursting tear:Fraternal love hath gemmed thy cheekWith drops to shame our Indian mine,And Izram's heart perchance could speakIn tone as kindly and as meekAs ever woke the pulse of thine:But I will drown that pleading breathIn the loud trumpet blast of death:Retain thy simple weed, to rollIts witness on the murderer's soul;Dark be thy wrath as frowning night,And mine as dire volcano bright."Swift as the linnet from the spray,His lightsome step hath sped away;And Albert breathes the secret groan,For woes more lasting than his own."So young, so beauteous, so enslavedTo satan's bidding—lost—depravedBy sins unnumbered: yet he spokeOf pleadings he would fain controul;Perchance the Lord indeed hath wokeA voice within his conscious soul.'Freedom and faith, a dream of bliss'—Oh would that waking prize were his!My spirit loathes his foul intents,Yet with a mother's woe laments:Gladly I'd brave a life of pains,To wrest him from these burning chains.Confederate in his fell design,Leagued to destroy, yet fixed to saveHis victim,—Saviour, be it mineTo call this slumberer from the grave!Bid him awake, and rise to viewBeams that can pierce his darkness through.It were a miracle—what lessCould change our heart of mortal mould?Speak, and the work is done—now blessThy word—O Lord, our Righteousness,Conduct this wanderer to thy fold!"While yet he breathed the broken prayer,The fiery Mexican was there:He came on Albert's wondering sight,Like some gay dream of fairy sprite:His form, in snow‐white vest arrayed,Its beauteous symmetry displayed;Soft as the wing of summer fly,His robe outshone the Tyrian dye!Each naked arm a circlet woreOf pearls to shame a regal store;The emerald and the ruby gracedHis ancles, tissued gold his waist.The plumes—his country's coronet—Enwreathed among his locks of jet,With every gesture waving, bowMajestic o'er his graceful brow.Their quills in clustering diamonds bound,They breathed a costly perfume round,And rivalled, in their glancing dyes,The glories of the western skies.The tress confined, his brow was bare,Softened in thought, and pale with care.Though from his eye‐beam toil had reftAwhile the fervid blaze of noon, Yet all the floating light was leftThat steals around the midnight moon.A naked dirk his belt displayed,Its ivory hilt with gold inlaid,And rich with gems; the tempered bladeGleamed a blue death‐fire, sternly bright;And Albert's sickening thought surveyedThe unborn horrors of the night.Abrupt he spoke, "Thou dazzling sin,I would thou wert as fair within.""Nay, Albert, all within is dark;These gauds no living lustre shed;Revenge alone, with crimson spark,Lights the drear mansions of the dead.It is for such as thee to dwellIn rays that demons cannot quell.My soul is black as thunder's cloud,—The gathering peal will echo loud,And fierce the flash: this louring gloomIs but the shade of Gondolph's tomb.I have not slumbered since I layBeneath the jaguar's gaze—Away!We'll to the bowl, and nectar drain,Till young life bound in every vein.""And would'st thou feed the angry mood,With wilder fire inflame thy blood,Hurl reason from her tottering throne,And change thy heart to very stone!O drink thou of the stream that swellsFar from the scenes of ruthless strife,Drawn from the everlasting wells,That spring beneath the tree of life."In wayward humour, Izram flungHis limbs upon a couch of pride,Its canopy with plumage hung,And feigning regal scorn, replied—"What! bar me from the gen'rous bowl?Ev'n here my lordly will controul?Rebel, wilt thou dethrone thy king?""Jest not, but heed,"—"I will not hear;If but one native note I sing,These loyal echoes straight will ring,With descant meet for monarch's ear.Now mark."—In cadence sweet and strongSudden he raised a lofty song.Izram."Line, in the annals of glory known,"Where have ye hidden your ancient throne?"Throbs no bold current in regal vein?"Be ye the vassals of ruffian Spain?"The base surmise from my soul I fling—"Ye are the nation; where's your king?"Richly the clear melodious soundFloats through the sparry caverns round;And ere the notes could melt away,Abruptly rose an answering lay;Strong voices pealed it loud and nigh,Filling the vaults with harmony.Voices."Deep, where the hearings of life arise,"Deep in the subject's heart he lies;"Deep, where the infant gem is born,"He tramples the yellow gold in scorn:"His tapestried hall is the crystal stone,"The diamond his lamp, and the rock his throne."Izram."Once, where the isle's blue waters swell,"Her princes fought, and her nobles fell;"The meanest in Aztlan's native train"Was peer for the proudest that forge their chain."Soft through its channel the pure wave runs,"Shrouding the heroes—Where are their sons?"Voices."Deep, where the close‐pent air abides;"Deep, where the flood its fountain hides;"Deep, where the young volcano's nursed;—"Woe to the land when their rage shall burst!"Soon may the volume of fate unfold"That the sons are true, as the sires were bold."Izram."Where are the counsels, wise and brave,"To guide the ship through the troublous wave?"The skill to watch for the breaking morn,"The league to bind and the word to warn?"The glimmering sparks of a rising blaze,"And the heart‐cheering record of olden days?"Voices."Deep in the bosoms of patriot worth;"Deep in the soil that gives them birth;"Deep in the symbol of mystic lore,"That never shall treachery's gaze explore:"The root is spreading below—the tree"Shall rise in a banner of pride for thee."Triumphant pealed the closing strain;The very echoes seemed to glowWith patriot ardour; oft again,When the bold note was sinking low,Some distant cavern caught the tone,And made the lofty lay its own,And gave it back again, to swellAnd rise, through many a winding cell;Careering round the giant dome,As though some pitying forms of airBlended the wild sweet chorus there,To grace an exiled monarch's home.Albert, entranced, a while forgotThe captive's doom, the murderer's lot,Yearning to bid the caves prolong,And still renew that thundering song.The full red torches flickered wide,The banners waved in martial pride,Sparkled the crystals; Izram's eye,To ecstacy relit, and raisedIn uncurbed majesty on high,With answering splendour keenly blazed.The sound dissolved, the spell was broke,Drooping his waving plumes he spoke."Hearts fond and true! far other meedThan darksome den, and venturous deed,From Izram might ye claim. Now speak,Thou silent Briton; well I trace,In the bold blood that warms thy cheek,The fervor of thy free‐born race.What miracle hath struck thee dumb—The preacher by the man o'ercome?""Perchance some tinge of honest shame,For slight respect to monarch shewn;Thy sin I hate, the sinner blame;And if, thy regal rank unknown"——"O peace, my friend; my brother, peace:When thy bold faithful counsels cease,Izram is lost indeed: I loveTo hear thy fearless tongue reprove,But deemed it well to shew thy speechTo other ears than mine might reach.These caverns teem with life; a raceOf nobles, this dark dwelling grace.They know the jaguar's dauntless foe,Thy daring deed, thy wrongs they know;But other themes beseem them not:Think'st thou my single arm could bringThee slumbering from the woodland cot?That were a feat for fairy king."While thus in playful grace he spoke,Sudden the startling echoes woke,As though a wide battalion sped,With one broad flash, the winged lead.Izram in on his feet: his lipQuivers; his veins to blackness swell:"They come! triumphant vengeance dipDeep in the flames, where demons dwell,Thy crimson torch!" With furious stride,Swift to the central space he hied:Then with a whistle, loud and shrillAs eaglet's scream, the signal gave;And figures, darkly mantled, fillThe niches of each opening cave:On every head bright plumage played,The rest was wrapped in folding shade.Their chieftain waves the circling sign,And sternly speaks—"No hand but mine."Their lofty crests in silence bow,And the fair plumes dance on every brow.Again th' exulting echoes rung,While wide a massy door was flung,And fiercely struggled, half repressed,The burning ire in Albert's breast,And wildly throbbed his temperate blood,When to his frowning glance confessedHis brother's murderer stood:'Twas nature's fever; mercy rolledHer current, and the fire controled.Blinded beneath the burst of light,The Spaniard veiled his aching sight;Then proudly, with expanding eye,Drew his majestic form on high,And firmly stepped, with measured pace,The features of his foe to trace.The youth in bitter mockeryBent, till the plumes had kissed his knee,Then tossed them, while with fiery gazeHis eye belied the courtly phrase,—''Thrice welcome be th' Iberian lordTo exiled Izram's humble board."(Full well betrayed the sudden startHow shot that name through Gondolph's heart.)"Fain would the Mexican repay,Well as attainted traitor may,The rites of Gondolph's princely dome,That cheered his spirit many a day,Ere yet his steps behoved to roam."Then burst the smothered fury high,"Ruffian! thine hour of doom is nigh!"Calm, in his fixed obdurate pride,The Spaniard spoke, untouched by fear;"While Izram in my view shill bide,Murder, I judge, must needs be near."Darting his glances round, they restOn Albert's form, and crimson vest:Shrunk the firm eye. "What! can ye callThe dead to your infernal hall?And who are these? a goodly train,Fresh reeking from the lash and chain;—Ye native bondsmen, lured to stray,By this mad boy, from duty's way,Liegemen of Spain! the crime disown;Those dainty limbs in fetters bind,Bend to your sovereign's outraged throne,Forgiveness seek; his royal mindThe grace will freely grant." A soundOf stifled laughter murmured round."Before our sovereign's outraged throne,Duteous we bend: we'll bind him well;In fetters he shall joy to own,Ev'n loyal love's securest spell."With dimpling smile and glowing cheek,Izram exclaims, "Essay once more;Pardon's faint breath is all too weak,—What think'st thou, if the glittering storeOf wealthy Spain might change their song?Gold, gold, my lord, is wondrous strong.If all thy bandit tribes could drainForth from the land's exhausted vein,Since first they trod the vanquished isle,And all the coffered hoards of SpainWere rifled out to swell the pile,That mass might almost match the placeThat Gondolph's presence deigns to grace."Then in a tone more sternly slow,Where hate and pride commingling glow,"Hear, thou abhorred! this costly mineWere but the shadow of a shade,Measured by those our princely lineHave never to the grasp betrayed,Of impious foes. Our stores could buyFleets to command the subject waves,Cities to pierce the wondering sky,Empires for toys, and kings for slaves."The Spaniard curled his lip in scorn—"Methinks the yoke is lightly borne:Why club ye not your stores, to buyThe glittering bauble, liberty?Why bribe ye not, with ample pence,Some stout ally to chace us hence,And on their ancient seat replaceYour puny and diminished race?"A sullen murmur muttering creptFrom the dark bands; and Izram stept,Glaring beneath his scowling brow,Like a chafed lion on the foe:"Burning mid everlasting fires,In torments yell your murderous sires;Mated with him, who first in crime,Brought ruin into Eden's clime.Diminished! aye, beneath the yokeHow many a gallant heart hath broke!How have the mighty bowed in death,Blighted by pestilential breath;The beauteous drooped, and died awayBefore oppression's blasting ray;Leaving a remnant firm and true,Noble and brave—but oh how few!Shall we profane our sacred store,And bribe some distant robber band,Greedy of sordid hire, to pourDestruction on the groaning land?Earth from her dregs could ne'er defileOur country with a pest so vile,Nor vomit forth a crew so baseAs dark Iberia's felon race;Yet seek we not with foreign steelThe ripening crop of weeds to mow,A parricidal hand shall dealWith deeper gash the destined blow,And o'er your pride, your towering pride,In bold career exulting ride.There lurks, within the womb of fate,A sorer pang, a deadlier bane,Than eastern scorn or western hateCould mingle in the cup of Spain:Spawn from her own corruption bred,Then on their putrid parent fed.Oft hath my spirit rose in gleeA glimpse of coming times to see,When the unwieldy cub shall breatheDefiance in his parent's teeth;To hear the angry beldame chide,In contest with the heedless air;Her blood‐stained talons stretching wide,Across th' Atlantic's laughing tide,In impotent despair.""Thou taunting fool! though wayward fateThe augury of thy brain‐sick hateShould e'en fulfil, what higher grace Than change of lords awaits thy race?Loosened awhile the servile chain,Tools for their need, then locked again.""Take thou no care for that: we holdThe master‐key, the secret gold:Let Liberty's resplendent eyeOnce beam, then farewell jealousy!Let Freedom's lightsome banner play,And, brethren, leagued in firm array,We conquer, or we die!What reck we,—so your caitiff bloodBe mingled with your cities' mud;—What reck we,—so your leagured townRe‐echo to the thundering guns;Though they who spill the crimson flood,And rend the flaunting standard down,And trample on the empty crown,Should be the tyrants' sons?Just heaven, retributive in wrath,Will hide that serpent in your path,In memory of the shameful wile,That lured the bands of TlascalaTo mingle in the impious fray,Against th' imperial isle.Then shall Chiapa's sons arise,And pour the reeking sacrificeTo names that in her mystic rollLive to inflame the warrior's soul.Long by your blinking race forgot,Their eye can mark the very spotWhere the firm aim of justice spedThe bolt to Montezuma's head:To vengeful gaze the site unfold,Where rose Mexitli's pile of gold,The temple of an erring creed,But sanctified by noblest deed,In history's page enrolled.There, in his sacrilegious pride,Glutting his savage eye with blood,Presiding o'er the purple tide,The fell hyæna, Cortez, stood.Aside their spears and quivers flung,'Twas there the princely brothers came,And, kneeling, to his mantle clung,Bold barter! with a moment's shameTo purchase never‐dying fame,And venge their country's cause: around,In suppliant guise, their arms they wound,With awful pause, a breathless space,The homage in abhorrence given,—Twin seraphs dwelling on the faceOf that arch‐rebel spurned from heaven—They bent on his accursed brow,With upward gaze, the beaming eye,And silently arose the vow,Not to the tyrant, but the sky.They pointed to the battle plain,Where swelled and sunk, in plumy surge,The billows of the fight; they strainTheir youthful sinews; bend, and gain,With their dark prize, the giddy verge:Wreathing in stern embrace their prey,They hurl them from the height;Wrapped, like the sinking orb of day,In a shroud of native light.""But watchful Heaven preserved its own;The wily traitors died alone.""Alone! how deep the conscious floodBlushed with the taint of Spanish blood,And murmured, in its patriot bedTo harbour such polluting dead,When, sickening deep with wild affright,Beneath the favouring veil of night, The panting robbers fled for life,And perished in the causeway strife!Alone! why every elementHath leagued in freedom's sacred cause;The earth her firm enclosure rent,And opened her devouring jaws:Along your veins the fire hath crept,While pestilence, with vengeful gust,Wide o'er your vaunting armies swept,And breathed them into dust.Your crimes the circling years rehearse,Pointing the deep unuttered curse:The glorious sun looks fiercely down,And withers you with scorching frown;The sullen mists enfold you round,And strike unseen the aguish wound:Ye spread the banquet, rich and fair,Intemperance drops her poison there:While lazy monks the gains devourOf many a long laborious hour,And tax you with a galling priceFor juggling feats and fooleries.Homeward the shrivelled remnant wend,Wasted by care, debauch, and toil,As yellow as the gold they rend,And parched like the exhausted soil;Their public seal the robbers shew,Murder's black signet stamps the brow;And grinning fiends, with greedy eyes,Unnoticed haunt each branded prize.Methinks I view the victims rolledIn burning seas of molten gold,And hear the taunts, the laughter shrill,'Now, sons of avarice, grasp your fill.' "With ghastly smile the Spaniard soughtTo veil the pang of shuddering thought."Albeit thy phrase is aptly set,I weary of the prating speech;—A wondering congregation metTo hear one half‐taught savage preach.I ween 'twas in Anselmo's schoolThou learn'dst to rail and rant by rule."His mock the youth unruffled heard:—"Thou yet shalt bide that railing word,My private wrong will plead in vain;This blade a nation's vengeance wreaks,Not Izram to Almarez speaks,But Mexico to Spain.Cast round thine eye and view the spoil,Of free‐born hands the willing toil,Relies of matchless worth: beholdThose arrows in their sheaths of gold,Studded with gems: the rusted darts,Drawn from the robbers' quivering hearts;The warrior belts of jewels twined,Yon plumy crowns with pearls combined:Elastic plates of scaly mail,For manly war; too slight and frailTo bide the dint of murderous lead,From Spain's infernal engines sped.These plume‐wrought banners, drooping nowBeneath the sheltering earth, againTo combat borne, shall float and bow,Rejoicing, o'er the piles of slain,While Guatimozin's battle‐wordLoud through the vengeful field is heard,And hearts of wrath intensely flameAt that imperial martyr's name;And mocking demons blithely spread,In nether gulfs, such flowery bedFor your eternal rest, as layGlowing beneath your guiltless prey:—Though slumbering justice linger yet,Deeply she'll pay the burning debt.—Gondolph, now sate thy favoured eyeOn that mysterious treasury,Whose warrior monarch, firm in will,Baffled thy father's fiendish skill;Constant in torture, shame, and death,To us the rich bequest he gave,And ne'er till now Iberian breathTainted the golden cave:But thou hast earned the grace to fallWithin this dungeon's glittering wall.""Aye, like the captive heroes, slainBeneath your hideous idol‐fane;Whose heart‐pulse, bared by butcher‐knife,Bounded and throbbed with struggling lifeOn the foul shrine, and slaked the thirstOf ruthless cannibals; accursedBy earth and heaven. What did we moreThan baulk your gods of human gore?Dispatching with a swifter strokeThose tens of thousands doomed to die,Beneath Mexitli's demon yoke,In torture, rage, and blasphemy.Had fate restrained the righteous hand,That swept this wrath‐devoted land,Your sacrificial knives had goredMore victims than our conquering sword."With eye reproachful, sad, and stern,Fixed the dark youth his piercing gaze:"And came your Christian band to turnThose sinners from destruction's ways?To burst the veil of mental night,And spread their hoard of gospel lightWide o'er the lovely fertile spot,Enrobed, by Him we worshipped not,In Eden's garb? the fairest gemOn nature's brilliant diadem.Ye found a clime where seraph guestMight fold the downy wing and rest;Epitome of every graceStrewed o'er creation's dwelling‐place;As western skies had kissed the earth,Enamoured of her beauteous birth,And stamped their tints, divinely fair,On every tribe that nestled there,Till bird, and flower, and insect glowed,Bright as the vesper sun's abode;And deep the burning radiance rolled,Ripening her very dust to gold;And kindling in her caverns drearSuch diamond sparks as glimmer here.Spreads not the lake its crystal breastTo woo again that azure guest?While emulous, with crested brow,Cedar and palm arise to bow;And Andes, in officious love,Impels his giant bulk above,To prop the glorious arch, and shroudHis head in evening's purple cloud.So nature wrought: admiring manWith duteous zeal pursued the plan;Culling, to deck his varied store,The charm she wove, the robe she wore:Nurtured the infant race of flowersIn broad parterre, and perfumed bowers;Leading the silvery founts to playThrough sculptured forms in freshening spray;Taught the transparent beam to roamOn marble wall, and jasper dome;Earth's secret treasuries displayedIn pillared porch and colonnade:Lofty and bold the turrets swell,As mountains from the western dell;Innumerous and bright they blaze,As dew‐drops in the morning's gaze:And softly smiled the star of eve,Where gold and flowers the net enwreathe;While, in unfelt captivity,Their wildest notes the warblers sing,And spread beneath a mimic skyThe glancing crest, and glorious wing,Till, rich in death, their beauties liveIn prouder tints than art can give:Dear was that native skill—how dearThe few poor wrecks that moulder here!"Nor lordly man unlettered trodThe glittering court and sylvan sod:In nature's darkest thraldom pent,Her chain his soaring spirit rent,Rose through the wildering mist, and caughtThe day‐beam of inspiring thought;Science illumed his searching eye,And empire crowned his policy:Through space unmeasured, undefined,He led the conquering march of mind;Firm as the targe his shoulder bore,And pliant as the plume he wore.Ye say, that, o'er this dazzling scene,Spirits of ill, and powers unclean,Usurping, rolled an impious floodOf cruelty, pollution, blood;While ye, in heaven‐sent mercy, cameTo blanch the blushing spot of shame,And plant upon the guilty sodThe banner of a Saviour‐God."Piercing the soft complying moss,Securely stands your mocking cross;And forward wends your pious tread,By avarice goaded, strumpet‐led.Forward! your church hath blessed the strife,Your arms are primed, and gold is rife:A monarch feeds your craving eyesWith glittering ore, and gems of price:Grasp at your will the tempting store,Persuasive guns shall plead for more.Forward! the young blade never bentBeneath a mounted armament;The fools combine, in erring plan,Each noble beast with ruffian man,And judge artillery's thunder givenFrom the dark cloud that wraps their heaven.Then, while the awe‐struck tribes discern These monster‐gods in mission zeal,Your righteous creed they quickly learn,Baptized in blood, and shrived with steel.Forward! some million harmless lives.Must dew your consecrated knives:Shout, while ye drive the weapon home,The gold for Spain! the gore for Rome!""Blasphemer, cease!"—"Indulge the mood,For I am born of stubborn blood:My sires, who yon bright banner bore,Would none of Rome's pacific lore:They knew not Quiabislan's league,Nor Zempoalla's dark intrigue;Nor, like the Tlascalan, unbound,With rending hand, their country's wound:Descending from a regal throne,They made the empire's cause their own;They towered amid the battle swell,And bravely fought, and freely fell.Victims for Guatimozin's sake,What time he spread his galley's wing,And launched upon the fatal lake,That murmured round her captive king,Tradition tells the crimson stainOn yonder shield was drawn from Spain;And vengeance whispers, 'Now renewWith kindred dye its faded hue.'Here dwell the very gods who ledYour fathers to the western shore,Sustaining their infuriate tread,Through leagured hosts, and seas of gore.Those golden gods, so safely storedIn guise of pillar, couch, and board;These flagons, where the deep‐set rimOf sparkling rubies crowns the brim;For these they dared the battle plain,For these ye plough the briny main;Such faith your pious deeds rehearse,Your deities, your spoil, your curse.""And meet it is your yellow oreShould swell the Christian's sacred store;From unbelievers rent by Heaven,And to its saints in guerdon given."From Albert's lip an answer came,In accent stern he uttered," Shame!The Lord will that foul charge disown;Dishonour not the sacred nameBy which the Christian band are known.He who the mild commandment gave,'Love ye the strangers,' loved them well;He came not to destroy but save,Mercy to teach, and rage to quell.He came to heal, He came to bindThe broken heart, and wounded mind.He licensed not the ruthless sword,He values not the glittering hoard;Whoe'er shall base allegiance oweTo mammon, is Jehovah's foe.Peace is His word, His banner love,His work the stony heart to move;His mercy, boundless, endless, free,Gondolph, may even reach to thee:To thee His grace can yet displayThe fount, the purifying flood,And from thy spirit roll awayThat fearful spot—the guilt of blood."On Albert's shoulder Izram pressedA gentle hand—"My brother cease:Beam not upon his gloomy breastThe words of tenderness and peace.Sealed by his crimes, that eye is dim;Preach to the rocks, but not to him.""Dear Izram, do not bar my word"——With proud derision Gondolph heard,And laughed—" 'Dear Izram'—'brother'—seeHow well may infidels agree!The heretic, whose sturdy breedIs famed for many a daring deed,The English mastiff, meet to chaseA herd of Mexico's faint race,—Let but our holy faith appear,Scourge of the unbelieving mind,And straight we view the dog and deerIn goodly fellowship combined.Briton, what mak'st thou here the while?Some envoy from the upstart isle,Sent to explore this wond'rous show,Balance the peril 'gainst the bribe,—And surely ye were worthier foeTo cope with, than this woman tribe.Slaves! 'neath the conquering bands of Spain,When havoc's glorious day begun,Their armies darkened hill and plain,And millions were opposed to one:Crouching before a warrior's frown,The trembling dastards lay in shoals;Our weary chargers trod them down,And trampled out their worthless souls.Cortez had won a nobler fame,Had fate provided bolder game."By the rude taunt to madness stung,Izram with brandished dagger sprung;On high the flashing weapon shone—"To Cortez and the fiends begone!"Ere on the scowling foe he closed,Albert his fierce career opposed."Izram, forbear; as thou would'st pleadFor mercy in thy dearest need,Slay not a soul."—"Now on thy life,Unloose thy hold, or dread the knife!"Foaming, he writhed, in wild disdain,Beneath that nervous grasp; in vain.Borne back a space by Albert's hand,He rallied to a desperate stand:With arm aloft, and breast to breast,Each in the grapple firmly stood;One movement—Izram's snowy vestIs dark with Albert's blood.Forth rushed the band: tumultuous swellDiscordant tones through vault and cell;Relaxed was Albert's straining grasp,Yet do his fingers faintly claspThe falling wrist:—to distance thrown,Rings the keen dirk upon the stone.Round Gondolph swords and daggers shine,But Izram bars the stern design."Go, to the inner dungeon‐grotBear him away, but harm him not:A deeper vengeance yet shall drainThe pois'nous tide from every vein."Beneath his comrade's drooping weightOppressed, he bends the trembling knee,And groans. "Oh, wretch accursed by fate!My brother, have I murdered thee?"Albert's faint smile consoling broke—"Haste, strip the arm, explore the wound:"A channel, rived by slanting stroke,Was swiftly closed, and smoothly bound,And, on his lip the cordial poured,He breathed, to life and sense restored."Unhappy Izram! hast thou wroughtAll the fell purport of thy thought?""The monster lives; I would not blendHis blood with thine impetuous friend,Why would'st thou urge thy headlong wayBetween the tyger and his prey?That smile! it spoke of yestermorn—I marvel not: thy race were bornTo rule the realms of earth, and rideTriumphant o'er the stormy tide."Reclined within the gloomy shade,Albert in sweet repose is laid;And Izram guards his sleeping guest,As eagles tend their rock‐built nest:The waking hour, in deep debate,Teems with the sullen captive's fate.Wavers the chief, but who shall chainThe vengeance of his princely train?Or who, should Gondolph 'scape, defendThe remnant of their scattered line,From raging avarice, prompt to rendThe treasure from the secret mine?"Thou heard'st me tell of many a hoard,By foreign tyrant ne'er explored;Tortures would rack, and flames devour,While lust surmised one hidden store:Thou would'st not crush my race, to saveThis felon from a well‐earned grave?"While pondering yet, they hear the throngOf hurried footsteps wend along:The Mexicans in wrath surroundA comrade, pale, disarmed, and bound. Few words the angry charge explain—"Gondolph by Nepuel's dirk is slain.""I slew him not: let Izram hear,From justice I have nought to fear.Few moons have waned, since in a strifeAlmarez Gondolph saved my lifeFrom one of his own band: he gaveChastisement to the vaunting slave,And pardoned me; yet claimed a meed,And swore me, at his hour of need,To succour him in turn: he came,A captive, doomed to die in shame.Pacing on guard before his cell,He saw me, and remembered well.He sought the boon, but had it ledTo flight or treason, ne'er had sped.Yielding, although I might not slay,I gave my dirk, and turned away:There lies the tyrant, grim in death,Leaving my fate to Izram's breath.""Nepuel, thou should'st have shunned his sight:Justice hath sternly claimed her right.I censure, but the deed forgive—Confirm it friends, and bid him live."Dispersed the train; yet lingered nighA chief, who looked on Izram's eye."How likest thou Nepuel's tale? what meed,Save treason, could the Spaniard seekFrom such as he? a fouler deedWas pondered: it hath tongue to speakA bond in treachery allied—Infection may be spreading wide:Some brows are glooming here: I wouldOur step were free beyond the flood."He parted, and to Albert's earIzram revealed his comrade's fear."What meant he by the flood?"—" The waveThat rolls around this island cave.""An island!"—"Aye, thou ne'er hadst thoughtHow far thy sleeping bulk was brought;But whether o'er the waters sped,Or deep beneath their solid bed,I may not utter; nor betray,No, not to thee, the secret way.Yet must I bear thee hence. I knowThese vaults enshroud some viper foe;And Nepuel's deed reveals a clue,Obscurely marked on Xloti's view,Full clear to mine—too clear. I go,To look upon the prostrate foe:I'll bid this lamp more brightly burn,But slumber not till I return."Scarce on the ear his step could die,A mantled figure, hovering nigh,Deliberate trod, and seemed to peerIrresolute amid the shade:Albert—the Christian knows no fear—Calmly the towering form surveyed,And rising, with unruffled brow,The challenge gave—"Say, what art thou?""Peace, Briton; hear, but answer not:I know thee; thou art firm and brave;Brief be my speech—a darksome blotOf treason taints this fatal cave.That royal youth,—thou lov'st him well,—Speed him away, and time shall tellI counselled wisely: let him go,My hand shall crush the darkling foe.Izram, secure in fancied power,Would fire the train ere ripe the hour.Bold boy! how wide that soul sublimeHad flourished in a kindlier clime!Nurtured like fawn to lady dear,He dreamed not of the savage chase,Nor trembled when that note of fearWas borne amid his cowering race.He gambolled with the hounds that drewHis sportive step to grace their den,Curious their reeking fangs to view,Displayed his harmless pearls again,And tossed his budding antlers wide,In the free play of fearless pride.Thou seest in him a portrait fairOf Aztlan's hero‐kings that were.Swells in his veins the current boldOf many a monarch, famed of old;Caziques, who battled, conquered, fell,Spurning the chain: in memory's cellHe stores their deeds, with tales that dyeThe page of eastern chivalry:Thanks to the self‐deluding foe,Who taught his martial fire to glow.Thus trained, he decks a dastard crewIn his own spirit's ardent hue;And loth were I to break the charm,Till he be safe from treach'rous harm.His fiery nature could not brookThe stigma on his ancient line;He bends no deep enquiring lookIn hollow hearts—they sound and shine,In seeming loyalty; they sootheThe princely dreams of sanguine youth,And speak him fair: but come the hourOf trial, they are winnowed bran:—Alas! that tyranny hath powerTo quell the gen'rous soul of man.""Stranger, I deem thy counsel good;But think'st thou of the circling flood?Izram for me shall ne'er betrayHis solemn trust, the secret way.Wounded, I could not swim the lake"—''Proffer the drowsy cup to take:Dar'st thou?"—"I will."—"He seeks the cell;Bold, honest Briton, fare thee well!Whate'er the victim's changeful lot,Albert and Xloti fail him not."Izram approached with panting breath;And clasping Albert's hand,—his ownChill as with oozing damps of death,—Vented his thought in smothered tone."Now can I thank thy martyr zeal;I cannot hate the ghastly dead:And gnawing shame my soul would feelFor stroke on foe defenceless sped,In madness was Anselmo slain;By frenzy nerved, I rent the chain;It smote him, but I scarcely knowIf chance or purpose dealt the blow.How farest thou now?"—"Alert and well,But weary of this darksome cell;The beams of heaven so brightly shine,So sweet is the unfettered air"—"Alas! how many captives pine,Pent in a deeper, darker mine,And wither in despair!Compatriots! agonizing themeOf morning sigh and midnight dream!They think upon the meads that lieSmiling beneath their own blue sky;They think upon the light that playsOver their native stream,The evening breeze that softly strays,And midnight's silver beam;And eyes of glancing love, that shoneThrough blissful hours, for ever gone.They look upon the sullen lampsThat glimmer through the foetid damps,Inhale their pois'nous breath,In feeble moan for freedom cry,Stretch their discoloured limbs, and lieCold in the grasp of death."His quivering lip no more could say,So high the sad emotion swelled;And Albert's tear had forced its way,And trickled to the hand he held."Soon will the wrathful Judge arise,And tyrants crouch in hopeless dread,While earth, beneath those awful eyesUnveiled, reveals her countless dead.Oceans of blood shall then appear,Appealing to Jehovah's earWith piercing cry. Thy country's wrong,The theme of record, tale, and song,Hath oft, in study's silent hour,Through my young spirit chilling crept;Within my own sweet native bower,My veins have burned, mine eye hath wept,While asked my heart, in restless pain,'Why doth the Lord so long refrain?Why hurl not from her sanguine throneThe impious harlot Babylon?With strong right hand her pride control,Bidding the stern oppressor cease,Breathe freedom on the captive soul,And on the wounded spirit peace?'The joyous dawn approaches fast,Soon shall the night of woe be past,And earth's awakened millions singHosanna to their Saviour‐King.Yet hope not thou the wrath of manShall work Jehovah's righteous plan.The fellest tyrant reigns within,The fetter of our kind is sin;Nor mortal hand may break the chain,Nor earthly flash illume our night;Powerless the carnal sword: in vainPale reason sheds her dubious light.When nations hear the call divine,Summoned to rise, and taught to shine,Faith is the shield, the weapon prayer,Eternal truth the day‐star fair.I marked thee, while the kindling ireShot from thine eye portentous fire;The burning phrase that clad thy thoughtOf wrong by fierce‐invaders wrought:But powers infernal feed the glow,The path is sin, the issue woe.Deceptive meteors court thy gaze,Death lurks within the radiant blaze:—As moth, allured by taper's beam,Fearless in narrowing circle moves,And plunges in the ardent stream,A victim to the light he loves."Now say, wilt thou convey once moreThy comrade to the distant shore,If such it be? My lip could drainThe sweet and drowsy cup again.""Wouldst thou confide so far? confideIn one whose hand thy blood hath dyed?""Aye; wherefore not? I trust thee well;Bring me the cup: the act shall tell."Izram arose, but lingered still—"Albert, I would thy race could reign,Careering over every hill,And ruling every fertile plain:We are too weak, too frail, too few,To plant our ancient palm anew:To them I'd ope the secret mine,And blythe my shadowy throne resign."Albert in sadness smiled—"Alas!Before thy gold's destructive gleam,The virtues of our race would pass,Like frost before the fervid beam:Look to the neighbouring isles, and scanThe boasted righteousness of man—These western isles—their very nameShould burn a Briton's cheek with shame—'Trust not in man,' the Lord hath spoke;And there, beneath the hideous yoke,Mid groans and blood on every side,'Trust not in man,' is echoed wide.Still rolls the yell of agonyUnanswered through the listening sky;Nor yet displays requiting timeA scourge for Britain's impious crime;Nor heaven‐commissioned whirlwinds sweepThat noisome plague to ocean's deep.But days of reckoning wrath shall come,To hurl the bolt of vengeance home,If mercy, o'er the billowy sea,Still vainly pour the warning plea."Izram the cup in silence brought,His brow was stamped with solemn thought;And Albert said, "I needs must gainOne boon from thee: when passed the tide,Wilt thou, like faithful nurse, remain,Nor yield thy charge to other guide?""Forsake thee? no—though limb from limbWere rent, I would abide by himWho saved me, doubly saved, and bled"—"Enough, my friend—the draught was sweet:Now let me pray, ere sense be dead;And when in waking hours we meet,Methinks I shall be strong, and freeTo tread the greenwood sward with thee."CANTO III.THERE comes a sound of waters dashing,A voice from nature's midnight tomb;And fast the silvery foam is flashing,In flakes of light athwart the gloom;The vampire bat his circuit wheels,Gliding amid the thorny brake;And where the poisonous gum congeals,The bloated toad from covert steals,Rousing the torpid snake.Nor aloe waves, nor towering palm,No shrub distils the odorous balm;But slimy venoms, trickling slowFrom clasping vines, bedew the moss;Where aconite and hemlock grow,And dank festoons, depending low,The ocotochtli's pathway cross.No gales of heaven, but vapours damp,Heavily through the dark trees breathe,And curling round the sullen swamp,Their noxious eddies wreathe.Hurled from a rock's black beetling brow,The fretful waters spin below:Deep, deep beneath the trembling ground,Giddily flies the whirlpool round;Nought but the light spray foaming highAgain beholds the cheerful sky;Entombed within some caverned cell,They roar a hollow, stern farewell.Close on the verge of that buried tide,With cautious step two figures glide:Low tones of shuddering horror thrill—"This is no haunt for living men;Sepulchral damps my spirit chill,And nature faints, as powers of illPresided o'er this murky glen.""Yes, I have led thee where the breathOf all that moves is fraught with death;Where adders thrive, and poisons wave,And rudely gapes the frowning grave.When tardy morn shall glimmer here,I'll shew thee wilder forms of fear;Aye, shew thee in how small a spanMay cluster every curse, but man,The master‐curse: now strain thy sight,Pierce the foul mist, and mark the sky,A moment:—see the fitful lightFlashing its blood‐red column high:Volcanic fires: 'tis sweet to gazeAt midnight on their lurid blaze,And here from sullen slumber rouseThe tribes of death's dark treasure‐house.Thou'lt chide me now"—"I'll rather weep,Powerless to heal.''—''But prompt to soothe,Thou voice of hope, and soul of truth!Mark those cold waves with rapid sweep,In darkness born, to darkness leap,Yet glimmer as they go, in lightThat half illumes this dreary night.Hurried like them in shrouding gloom,From rayless birth to joyless doom,If Izram's soul one moment shineIn its fell course, that gleam is thine.Yet wherefore link thy fate to oneBy Heaven disowned, by man undone?Upholding whom thou canst not save,Caught in the whirl, to share his grave."" 'Twere but a dastard part to leaveMy shipmate, when the billows heaveIn stormy swell—I cannot fear,Though man forsake the Lord is near.Think'st thou Iberian foes can threadThe lab'rinth of our winding tread?""Unaided? no—but who may scanThe guileful perfidy of man?Xloti will loose the prisoned wave,To deluge yonder island cave,Stifling the wasps within their nest; But some perchance have winged their way.""And, could'st thou give such foul behest,The faithful with the false to slay?""No 'hest of mine: from age to age,Caziques their plighted oath engage,Ere robber hand or eye profaneThose consecrated wrecks, to drainThe circling lake, and bid the floodWith sweeping gush the caverns brim;Xloti is born of regal blood,The stern achievement rests with him,If such our need: the subject band,Sworn vassals, bow to my command.Summoned by me to upper air,Treason alone durst linger there,Unconscious of the secret doomThat steals upon her mystic tomb:The skill to flood that vaulted stoneIn Xloti's breast and mine, alone,Is sealed. Behold yon sickly gleam,Precursor of the ruddy beam:Eastward it struggles: slow expiresThe radiance of those earth‐born fires.Morn will relume, with callous smile,The paths of peril, woe, and toil,Reckless, on many an eye‐ball dance,That sickens at her flaunting glance."Swathed in a grey mysterious light,Now shews the rock its frowning height;Precipitous, wild, rude, and bare,No softening verdure freshens there.Deep chasms indent the rugged side,Each stern black fissure gaping wide;Projecting crags would fain delayThe cataract in its foaming way,But fast the broken waters gush,And to their secret dwelling rush.As rolls the heavy mist apart,With transient blink the sun‐beams dart,Where on the tall rock's jagged steepThe swart and yellow lichens creep;Stirred by the morning's breath, they fallLike pennons on a ruined wall.Far westward smiles the ruddy glow,On mountain summits capped with snow,That, melting in the distant sky,Expand a cloudy ridge on high:But ever‐glooming shades repelThe day‐beam from that sombre dell.Yet welcome was the rude repose;A dark retreat from darker foes.Albert, in slumber wrapped, was borneForth from the cave at early morn;And woke in timely hour, to wrestA dagger aimed at Izram's breast,By treach'rous hand: the rebel, bound,Beneath the weapon's point displayedThe wily snares encircling roundHis youthful leader, long betrayed.Then Xloti came; his lightning thrustStretched the assassin mute in dust;He tempered with resistless pleaThe fiery scorn of Izram's soul,Winning the haughty chief to flee,Ere the full‐freighted cloud should rollOn Albert, that o'erwhelming tideWhich he had braved in dauntless pride.In hunter's simplest weed arrayed,Yet deeply armed with tube and blade,They sallied, where the mock‐bird sungHer sweetest lay, and squirrels sprungIn playful leap: before them glowedSoft plumage of a thousand dyes,Where from their flower‐enamelled roadAbrupt the floating pinions rise,And perch amid the deepening green,In glorious shapes of silver sheen,Of regal purple, blushing red,Each tint o'er nature's pallet spread.Lizards and fangless snakes displayTheir agile forms in vestment gay;The wild‐bee, as he wends along,Trills to the rose his sylvan song;Twining in lofty arches high,Blend cedar, palm, and ebony;Gigantic aloes here unfoldAt every joint their knots of gold;There, the tall tulip‐tree bestudsHer branching arms with gem‐like buds;And not a charm to Flora givenBut smiles beneath that azure heaven.Cereus,—hesperus of flowers,—Enamoured of the softer hours,Lies coiled within her downy cell,In beauty's proudest blaze to swell,When shoots the fire‐fly's fairy gleam;The sable brow of night to wreatheIn fragrance day could never breathe,Then die before the morning's beam.In winding course, a crystal rillSteals from beneath the rising hill,Freshening a sunny bank, arrayedIn emerald moss and infant blade.There, like a drift of stainless snow,Basks the white stag, a noble aim;But Izram hath not bent his bow,While faintly, indistinct, and low,The murmuring accents came."I shorten not thy fleeting span,Poor native fool! thou fear'st not man,Because thou know'st him not—'twere hisWith murderous skill to mar thy bliss,To dye thy silken vest with blood,And speed thee plaining through the wood,I cannot now."—From light reposeStartled, that beauteous creature rose;A moment gazed with wondering eye,Bearing his graceful antlers high,Then gambolling, in wanton glee,Sprung o'er the stream, and turned to flee.Peering above his rapid path,The monkey tribe his flight survey,Chattering declare their idle wrath,And shake the bough and bend the spray;Hurling the juicy missile far,In all the rage of pigmy war;While parrots stoop, with curious pry,The ebon beak and piercing eye,Betraying mid their leafy screen,Bedropt with gold, a livelier green:And rainbow pinions, fluttering round,Swell the gay strife with rustling sound.The closing eve viewed Albert laidBeneath a low palmetto's shade,Whose feathery branches, wooed to spreadOn canes, afford a verdant shed,Izram with leech's care unbound,And gently dressed the healing wound.Cheerly he spoke, his cheek the whileHalf brightened to a passing smile,"Thanks to the Christian's God are due;Our hasty flight thou dost not rue.I'll bring thee cooling pulps, and keepA soldier's watch, while thou shalt sleep;Then stretch my limbs in turn, and tryHow mates despair with misery.""Woe, Izram, is a bitter root,Yet formed to bear immortal fruit;A harrow in th' Almighty hand,To crush and turn the stubborn land.The reeds have broke and pierced thy breast,Oh make the Rock thy fortress now!And thou shalt win a sweeter restThan broods upon the monarch's brow.The warning to thy soul is sent,These awful scourges cry 'Repent!'Bend but a stedfast gaze within,Scan the permitted reign of sin,List to the righteous law, whose breathGuerdons each evil thought with death,—A conscious death that cannot die,The gnawings of eternity,—Then on the cross thy Saviour see,Bearing the wrath divine for thee,And risen with all‐prevailing loveTo plead thy desperate cause above;While gently, in thine inmost ear,The Spirit's voice invites thee near.The foe, to bar that winning sound,Hemmed thee with lofty bulwarks round;He bade thy fiery passions bringRebellious bands to dare thy King;Ambition, love, revenge, and pride,Armed at his beck, a host supplied:Entrenched, thy soul disdainful trod,Gloried in shame, and scorned its God.A Father's hand in pity burstThrough the black fence of powers accurst;Plucked from the sheltering battlement,To cast thee on the stormy wild,And there the gracious summons sentAgain salutes His wayward child;Tells thee, my brother‐worm, by me,That heaven hath oped before thy treadIts golden gates, and Jesus spreadThe banquet of His love for thee."Still shading his averted face,The youth in pensive silence stood;Then starting, with disordered pacePlunged deep within the thickest wood;While, faith o'ermastering cold despair,Albert pursued the theme in prayer.When woke the bird her matin song,The pilgrims rose to wend along,And wilder grew the path, and chillThe evening breeze from moor and hill;Till midnight vapours, cold and damp,Enwrapped them in the pois'nous swamp:Nor might they close the heedful eyeBeneath its humid canopy.When to that gloomy scene the rayHad lent its scanty share of day,Nor longer could the rattlesnakeLie veiled within the shadowy brake,But the fierce eye‐beam sternly toldWhere lay involved his deadly fold,And slinking back from human kenThe she‐wolf sought her secret den,The weary travellers softly trodOver the moist and slimy sod,Wary and slow, for still their feetVerged on the viper's dank retreat.Above, Arachne's giant broodSpun their tough venom through the wood,So firm, that captive birds in vainEssayed to rive the gluey chain:Clenched in the reptile's closing grasp,The helpless victims writhe and gasp,And soon beneath its gory fangs,Flutter in death's convulsive pangs.Where the rude cliffs projecting hung,Forth in her pride the eagle sprung;And, stooping from her eyrie's height,With sable wing obscured the light:Loud thrilled her scream—with louder cryGrates from beneath a harsh reply;And there, upon his liquid throne,The alligator reigns alone;With reedy banner wide unfurled,Dread monarch of the watery world!Clashing his naked fangs, he rearsHis scaly bulk, and spouts the wave;Beneath his glowing eye appearsThe semblance of a sulph'rous grave;So smokes each fiery breath he drawsIn eddies through those iron jaws:Basking in shoals the monsters lie,Or plough the lake with deafening cry.The scenery of that murky valeMight teach the firmest heart to quail;Yet faltered not their steps, who woundSkirting the cloudy waters round;For Albert, strong in faith, recalledThe fiat which to man enthralledAll nature's various tribes, and spreadOn every beast his fear and dread.What daunts him whom the Lord defends,Numbering his every hair, and bendsThe shadow of His hand, to raiseA bulwark round His servant's ways?And Izram's pallid features wearThe reckless smile of bold despair,As glancing on the living tideThe fierce unwieldy forms he eyed,And muttered, "Ye are freemen still:Stout were the arm, and shrewd the skill,That dared your native reign invade,Or touch the ivory palisadeFencing your throats, though every fold,And every scale, were lined with gold."Retiring from the sedgy lake,A steeply winding path they take,Toiling to gain a narrow ledge,Where mountain goat would pause to tread,So giddily the broken edgeO'erhung a gulf's unbottomed bed.But firm and fearless Izram stepped,Guiding his comrade's course, and creptWithin a chasm, whose narrow spanCould ill admit the bulk of man;Meet portal to an eagle's nest,But strange resort for human guest.Descending now, with cautious leap,They stood beneath an ample cave,Whose frequent crevice, straight and deep,Free passage to the sun‐beam gave."Here rest we, Albert; here abide,Till fairer chance our steps betide.These rocky vaults may well supplyA dwelling lightsome, warm, and dry;Though foes our wild retreat should ken,No hostile step can near the den;A single arm may guard the post,Nor fail to daunt a threatful host.The palm's broad leaf, profusely thrown,Shall soften e'en a couch of stone;And, westward, robed in cheerful green,Thou seest an ample magazineOf fuel, game, and wholesome root;Sweet bev'rage, and delicious fruit:Peer through the narrow chink, and say,How lik'st thou yonder fair display?"It was a magic scene; the eyeGazed from a cliff abrupt and high:Below, a velvet plain was spread,Where buffalo and roe‐buck fed;Beyond, a spicy forest rose,And calmly flowed a limpid stream,While far remote, in deep repose,Gigantic mountains caught the beam,Their summits wrapped in snowy shroud,Towering above the fleecy cloud.With sparkling eye and bounding breast,Albert exclaimed, "Be this our rest!Here, in this sweet secluded cell,The Lord may smile, and peace shall dwell."From short repast, and light repose,Ere stooped the western sun, they rose,And to their lofty eyrie bore,With patient toil, the evening store.Again at early morn they roveThe sloping plain and shady grove,Bear in the cocoa's ample shellStreams that from crystal fountains well;Izram with nice discernment tapsThe balmy tree for luscious saps;The magney, vegetable mine,Yields them her sweet cassavi bread,Pours from her veins the gen'rous wine,Curtains the wall and strews the bed;The gaze enchants, the need supplies,Weeps nectar, breathes perfume, and dies.Where verdant scales reflect the beam,Lurks cherrimoya's honied cream;And every sweet that nature gave,Lay hoarded in that craggy cave.Oft as the hunter's craft they plied,Beneath their bow the quarry died;And memory would her cells explore,For touching theme, and classic lore.But lore nor sylvan sport controlThe deepening gloom of Izram's soul;Though Albert wrought with sacred skillThe burden from his mind to win,And oft repulsed, unwearied still,Would probe the festering wound within.Izram had stripped from feathered preyTheir plumes of azure, gold, and jet,And listless as at eve he lay,Entwined a native coronet;Gazed for a while with musing eye,And flung the beauteous bauble by.Albert with silent heed beheldThe smothered pang that wildly swelled;Then spoke, in accent sad and low,"Would it were mine to soothe thy woe!There heaves within that aching breastA stormy sea that cannot rest;Nor will its wearying tempest cease,Till thou shalt list the word of peace.""Never! no word of peace can comeWithin my spirit's darkened home.I chide thee not, for well I knowFrom purest love thy teachings flow;The heavenly theme to thee is dear,To me 'tis bitterness and fear;So lost am I, the widest graceCould never Izram's soul embrace.""Strange, that a honey‐drop should fallOn thy distempered lip as gall!Canst thou, a worm, a finite thing,Outreach the grace of heaven's high King?I know thy spirit fierce and wild,I know thy hand by blood defiled,By headlong passions hurried stillTo work each demon's deadly will;I know it all: and yet thine eyeLours with unuttered mystery:Deep in thy bosom's inmost foldThere lurks some secret, yet untold.""A serpent nest: I will not shewThat gorgon to thy shrinking view.Go, search through flame, through earth's firm core,Through depths of ocean, heights of air,The everlasting gulf explore,Thou canst not with one wrath‐drop moreCrown the full cup of my despair,Nor compass with thy labouring thoughtThe crimes this fearless heart hath wrought.""Thy words appal me not: I bringThe proffer of a healing spring;Some lost as thee have blest the flood,Cleansed from all sin by Jesus' blood.Canst thou Jehovah's word recal,Or pass beyond that boundless ALL?Though lightnings pierce, and thunders roll,And mountain billows whelm thy soul,Though round thee earth her barriers spread,And ocean weeds enwrap thy head,Lulled by His voice, the storm shall cease,His gentle accents whisper, peace."On Izram's sullen glance was borneA dart of anguish, blent with scorn;It curled his lip of livid hue:—"And blooms there peace for Judas too?To his own place he went—repairWith tidings of deliverance there:There, in thy fond security,Preach peace to him—but none to me:Me, the apostate; me, who soldThe faith, but not for earth‐born gold;A deeper barter, paid too wellIn the devouring coin of hell.—I marvel at thy steadfast brow,—Its sudden flush hath passed away—I tell thee I was blest as thou,Beneath the gospel ray:Not clouded with the pagan riteOf those whose fairest noon is night,But pure and holy as the blaze,When first, to the Redeemer's praise,On Bethl'hem's plain the song began,While seraphs hymned, in rapturous lays,Glory to God, and peace to man.The name of Jesus once could calmEach stormy fiend that racked my breast,Breathe o'er my soul ambrosial balm,And bathe my brow in holiest rest.Oh! many a day I taught His nameTo lisping childhood, faltering eld;And prayer arose like hallowed flame,And lays of sweet devotion swelled.—I spurned Him—Foolish youth forbear;Thou shalt not weep, or not for me;It maddens more my wild despair,Those kindly‐trickling drops to see.Still flow they? would thou hadst not wrungThis secret from my blistering tongue!Check, womanish, thy tears, for shame—Or weep; for thou hast wakened mine:I little thought the withering flameCould mingle thus with liquid brine—I little thought a tear should stainThis crime‐emboldened cheek again."He flung him on his leafy bed,With arms enfolded o'er his head,And Albert inly joyed to viewThe softening and unwonted dew.Whispering he spoke—"I half had guessedThe secret of my brother's breast,But could not deem thy land was gracedWith gospel glories undebased.Poor prodigal! thy spirit rouse,Come to thy Father's open house:He longs for thee: behold, His careThe ring, the robe, the feast prepare.Izram—my friend—return, and prove,The sweets of everlasting love." "Thou hast a syren note—I long,Yet dread to list that witching songOf pardon and of hope. Now hearMy tale of sorrow, shame, and fear:Afar I fling the dark disguise,And give the monster to thine eyes."Marauding o'er the boundless waves,Wandered a band of pirate slaves;Spain from her dungeons poured the crew,To fill the widening gaps anew;For, crushed and blighted, day by day,Our native millions pined away;And Heaven the plenteous cup of wrathPoured freely on the murderers' path,Bidding their wasted hosts expire,In famine, surfeit, flood, and fire.Long ere the western shore they gain,This felon freight rebellious rose,The galley seized, and roved the main,Plunder their word, the world their foes.A vessel crossed the robbers' way,They chased and grasped the helpless prey."There sighed, amid the captive band,A wanderer from the clime of Tell,Hills of the Switzer, glorious land,Where freedom's wildest carols swell,While on the Alp's majestic browShe wreathes her diadem of snow.Spurning the chain that sought to bindHis spotless faith, his lofty mind,The noble exile, high in birth,Ennobled more by priceless worth,His home forsook, and fondly smiledUpon his only, beauteous, child,Deeming in other climes to meetA calmer rest for Minna's feet.Ere yet the work of plunder ceased,The billows roared, the gale increased,And, dashed upon our northern coast,The corsair crew their galley lost;'Scaping with life, a naked band,The weary remnant reached the land."Near those wild waters dwelt a tribe,Whom force nor quelled nor gift could bribe;Famed like their sires for bold emprize,The stern and tameless Otomies:Unfettered in their mountain reign,Their battle‐cry was— 'Woe to Spain!'And those dark pirates 'scaped the floodTo sate the vengeful soil with blood.Amid the pile of slaughter flung,The Switzer died; but Minna clung,Frantic with fear, to one who spreadHis target o'er her cowering head,And with a chief's control repressedThe rage of many a stormy breast.Borne to his rocky home, she dwelt,Honoured and blest, that warrior's bride,And bade his rugged nature melt,To gentler sympathies allied.Wound in the soft and silken tieOf woman's hallowed witchery,—The spell that sternest bosom moves—He loved, as savage rarely loves."She bore a daughter; one whose faceBespoke the father's tawny race;But oh, the pearls that dwelt withinThat soul of Minna's gentle kin!The heart of love, capacious mind;The feelings generous, soft, refined;The lamp of piety, that glowedSo brightly in its sweet abode!My mother!"—and the accents gasped,Half stifled by the sobs that rise,While on his burning temples clasped,His hands conceal his streaming eyes:—"Oh mother, mother! friend and guide,Why left the parricide thy side!"That bud of beauty scarce was blown,When Minna sought her Saviour's throne.Reft of his love, the widowed chiefHis tribe forsook in restless grief;From place to place the pilgrims roam,And reach at length Chiapa's plain;Where, in my father's peaceful home,A welcome and repose they gain.His generous soul with pain surveyedThe dying sire, and loved the maid;Unknown, save to himself; the race; A mixture had been deemed disgrace:Iberian taint perchance surmised;—My noble sire the doubt despised:Eagles with eagle mates may wed,Though in a distant mountain bred;And Alpine eagles soar as highAs liberty can glance her eye.If love of freedom, patriot scorn,Blent with the vital stream, be borneFrom age to age, that stern disdainFull well might bound in Izram's vein,My infant ear hath drank the taleOf frozen height, and sunny vale,Where hearts who spurned oppression's prideIn living phalanx stemmed the tide,And fiercely dashed the surging foamBack to the startled tyrant's home;Or, battling for the gospel word,Pursued the flash of Zuing's sword.Huitzla taught my heart to swell,When lisped my tongue the name of Tell;My sire, whose blood its current drewFrom high Tezeuco's regal race,Oft to my spirit's eager view,With rival touch, a scene would traceOf native glories, meet to flameBeside Helvetia's proudest name.—They fanned a blaze with playful breathTo wrap that mingled line in death."Hast thou ne'er marked, my lip and cheekNo Indian ancestry bespeak?'Twas Minna stamped my brow too fair,And softened to its curl my hair:Oft while these locks profusely spread,My parents stroked the urchin's head,And cried, with looks of laughing love,Their Izram would a tell‐tale prove.O days of childhood, sweet ye shone;Why died I not ere ye were gone!"When ten short circling years were fled,We saw Nopatzlin droop and fade;Weeping we kneeled around the bed,Where the expiring saint was laid:Won to receive the living word,Long had he loved and served the Lord.Through the dim shadowy vale of death,His God a lamp and staff supplied;And lauding him with feeble breath,Joyous in conquering faith he died.His was the mild untroubled breast,In its own cloudless sunshine blest;Like meadow rill that calmly glidesBeyond the reign of changeful tides.Mine was the mountain spring, that, ledMeandering through its rocky bed,Waits but a sudden swell to sweepWith headlong torrent down the steep."On rainbow wings the seasons flew;I rose beneath a mother's eye,Answering its beam, with mirror true,As the still lake reflects the sky;Resplendent in a borrowed light;As yet unruffled, pure, and bright;That was my day of life—the restIs midnight in my stormy breast.My boyish gaze would oft exploreThe symbols of our ancient lore,And nobles marked their young Cazique,As, bending o'er the mystic scroll,With starting tear and burning cheek,The rising vengeance swelled my soul;And subtly worked the specious leaven,Till earth had wiled my heart from heaven.Huitzla saw how, many a day,From her fond side I stole away,Breathing my soul in secret vows,And blazing at my country's wrong,Mingled with men who loved to rouseThe latent spark by tale and song;Even while I conned the holy word,My spirit pined for Gideon's sword,Languished to rend the groaning prey,From worse than Egypt's tyrant sway:Still on my lip persuasion hung,To shame the old and fire the young;Deeply we quaffed the daring theme,And revelled in a glorious dream."I told thee how Anselmo sought,With serpent wile, our peaceful vale;But spare my soul the maddening thought,The horrors of the tale!When at my feet Huitzla lay,And rising placed in dark arrayThe apostate's crime and doom,Shewing the awful paths that leadThrough evil wish to sinful deed,Thence to a hopeless tomb;She warned me of the snare, the stain, She pointed to her widowed bower,The scene of many a tranquil hour,But never more to smile—in vain:I wavered, but ambition spoke,Drowned was the plaintive plea—I brokeImpetuous from her wild embrace;Flung far the Saviour's gentle yoke,And joined the demon race.With snares beset, by sin subdued——My heart grows sick, I cannot tellHow, step by step, my foot pursuedThe beaten path that leads to hell;How leisurely the tempter stole,Unnoticed, from my heedless soul,Her treasure of celestial joys,And filled the chasm with airy toys.In panoply of pride secure,Well could I spurn the sensual lure;Abashed before my scornful eye,Vice veiled her foul deformity:Twas in my bosom triumphed sin,A saint without, a fiend within,While still, in darkening thought, I sateMy wild revenge, and heath'nish hate.And when the Lord, with warning breath,Whispered to shun eternal death,I turned me from the voice, to proveThat feverish dream of mortal love.Quenched by my fierce and stubborn will,Opposed and grieved, the Spirit flies,And leaves the bartered slave of illTo perish in his own device.Though Satan urged a rightful claim,Fain had I borne the Christian name,To soothe my soul; but I was pentAmid the cowled crew, who bentA jealous gaze—I could not guileMy reason with the flimsy wileOf fabling Rome. Anselmo's eyeWas veiled in prudent policy;He deemed that in the lonely hourI bowed before some idol power,And questioned not: his pedant storeWas swelled with tomes of guileful lore,And these I rifled, day by day,Forgot to fear, and ceased to pray.While thus I fed the widening blotOf hate and passion, scorn and pride,Neglected in her lonely cot,My mother wept, and pined, and died.Then earth and heaven arose to pleadFor vengeance on the parricide;Red came the death‐bolt's searching glare,Conscience awakened roused despair,Writhing I rather raged than mourned,My heart in fierce resentment burned;And then the maddening cup I quaffed,For Lethe lurked within the draught.Spurning against the chastening rod,I chose my country for a god,Pledged the wild oath, no other name,My zeal should move, my care should claim.I asked but vengeance,—let it comeFrom angel's bower or demon's home—Who gave revenge should bear awayMy spirit his affianced prey;Anselmo's murder sealed the vow,—And darest thou speak of mercy now?""Mercy, that overtops the heightOf yonder vaulted azure light:Mercy, that sets the hated sinFar from the soul as east from west,And leads the guilty wanderer in,A pardoned and admitted guest:That saving power thou hast not known,Unbroken was the heart of stone;Unmeet the glorious work to scan,Thy teacher was not God, but man.Soon as arose the troublous swell,Thy sand‐built shed in ruins fell.Far from the Lord thy step hath strayed;Thou hast rebelled, blasphemed, deniedThy Saviour‐King, but he hath prayed,And for the foul offender died.""Oh, not for me!"—"Nay, do not spurnHis grace—Who sent me o'er the main,To bid thee live, to bid thee turn,To save thee from a darker stain,And armed me with a secret powerTo quell thee in thy wildest hour?"" 'Tis wondrous: oft, when thou hast spoke,Gleams of unearthly radiance brokeAcross my spirit's gloomy night;Glimmers of faint and distant light,To shew th' appalling chaos there,And fade again in black despair.Like drowning wretch, with desperate twine,Long have I linked my heart to thine;Still brooding o'er the coming day,When thou wilt soar to bliss divine,And I must sink, the demon's prey.'Twas that on thy mild spirit shone,The light of days for ever gone;To me thou wert an airy voice,A phantom shape, of buried joys,Too holy and too pure to restAgain in this polluted breast.Yet stout rebellion, linked with pride,The tie disowned, the claim denied.Deep in the iron net ensnared,I fain would deem our common wrongMy life preserved, and peril shared,Had wove a chain so bright and strong.And while my soul, o'erawed by thine,Faltered in every fell design,Still writhing in th' accursed yoke,What pangs thy faithful speech awoke!Nor wine could drown, nor madness quell,That foretaste of my future hell.""Blessed be the Lord, whose watchful careHath laid thy festering bosom bare!He never made a vain appeal,Nor searched the wound He would not heal.The stroke is mercy; lie thou stillBeneath His hand, and wait his will.Pray—he will send the quickening shower;Believe— thou shalt know his power.""I may not pray; I would not bowMy pride, and He hath left me now.Too long I waged the frantic strife—What murderer holds eternal life?""As murderer, none: