The Columbiad: A Poem Part 7

Warriors, attend! tomorrow leads abroad Our sacred vengeance for our brothers' blood.

On those scorch'd plains for ever must they lie, Their bones still naked to the burning sky?

Left in the field for foreign hawks to tear, Nor our own vultures can the banquet share.

But soon, ye mountain G.o.ds, yon dreary west Shall sate your hunger with an ampler feast; When the proud Sun, that terror of the plain, Shall grieve in heaven for all his children slain, As o'er his realm our slaughtering armies roam, And give to your sad Powers a happier home.

Meanwhile, ye tribes, these men of solar race, Food for the flames, your b.l.o.o.d.y rites shall grace; Each to a different G.o.d his panting breath Resigns in fire; this night demands their death: All but the Inca; him reserved in state These conquering hands ere long shall immolate To all the Powers at once that storm the skies, A grateful gift, before his mother's eyes.

The sachem ceased; the chiefs of every race Lead the bold captives to their destined place; The sun descends, the parting day expires, And earth and heaven display their sparkling fires.

Soon the raised altars kindle round the gloom, And call the victims to their vengeful doom; Led to their pyres, in sullen pomp they tread, And sing by turns the triumphs of the dead.

Amid the crowd beside his altar stood The youth devoted to the Tiger-G.o.d; A beauteous form he rose, of n.o.ble grace, The only hope of his ill.u.s.trious race.

His aged sire, for numerous years, had shone The first supporter of the Incan throne; Wise Capac loved the youth, and graced his hand With a fair virgin from a neighboring band; And him the legate prince, in equal prime, Had chose to share his mission round the clime.

He mounts the pyre, the flames approach his breath.

And thus he wakes the dauntless song of death:

Dark vault of heaven, that greet his daily throne.

Where flee the glories of your absent Sun?

Ye starry hosts, who kindle from his eye, Can you behold him in the western sky?

Or if unseen beneath his watery bed, The wearied G.o.d reclines his radiant head, When next his morning steps your courts inflame, And seek on earth for young Azonto's name, Then point these ashes, mark the smoky pile, And say the hero suffer'd with a smile.

So shall the Power in vengeance view the place, In crimson clothe his terror-beaming face, Pour swift destruction on these curst abodes, Whelm the grim tribes and all their savage G.o.ds.

But ah, forbear to tell my stooping sire His darling hopes have fed a coward fire; Why should he know the tortures of the brave?

Why fruitless sorrows bend him to the grave?

Nor shalt thou e'er be told, my bridal fair, What silent pangs these panting vitals tear; But blooming still the patient hours employ On the blind hope of future scenes of joy.

Now haste, ye fiends of death; the Sire of day In absent slumber gives your malice way; While fainter light these livid flames supply, And short-lived thousands learn of me to die,

He ceased not speaking; when the yell of war Drowns all their death songs in a hideous jar; The cries rebounding from the hillsides pour, And wolves and tigers catch the distant roar.

Now more concordant all their voices join, And round the plain they form the festive line; When, to the music of the dismal din, Indignant Zamor bids the dance begin.

Dim thro the shadowy fires each changing form Moves like a cloud before an evening storm, When o'er the moon's pale face and starry plain The shifting shades lead on their broken train; The mingling tribes their mazy gambols tread, Till the last groan proclaims the victims dead, Then part the smoky flesh, enjoy the feast, And lose their labors in oblivious rest.

Soon as the western hills announced the morn, And falling fires were scarcely seen to burn, Grimm'd by the horrors of the dreadful night, The hosts woke fiercer for the promised fight; And dark and silent thro the frowning grove The different tribes beneath their standards move.

Meantime the solar king collects from far His martial bands, to meet the expected war, Camps on the confines of an eastern plain That skirts the steep rough limit of his reign; He trains their ranks, their pliant force combines, To close in columns or extend in lines, To wheel, change front, in broken files dispart, And draw new strength from all the warrior's art.

But now the rising sun relumes the plain, And calls to arms the well-accustom'd train.

High in the front imperial Capac strode, In fair effulgence like the beaming G.o.d; A golden girdle bound his snowy vest, A mimic sun hung sparkling on his breast; The lautu's horned wreath his temples twined, The bow, the quiver shade his waist behind; Raised high in air his golden sceptre burn'd, And hosts surrounding trembled as he turn'd.

O'er eastern hills he cast his watchful eye, Thro the broad breaks that lengthen down the sky; In whose blue clefts the sloping pathways bend, Where annual floods from melting snows descend.

Now dry and deep, they lead from every height The savage files that headlong rush to fight; They throng and thicken thro the smoky air, And every breach pours down the dusky war.

So when a hundred streams explore their way, Down the same slopes, convolving to the sea, They boil, they bend, they force their floods amain, Swell o'er obstructing crags, and sweep the plain.

Capac beholds and waits the coming shock, As for the billows waits the storm-beat rock; And while for fight his ardent troops prepare, Thus thro the ranks he breathes the soul of war: Ye tribes that flourish in the Sun's mild reign, Long have your flocks adorn'd the peaceful plain, As o'er the realm his smiles persuasive flow'd, And conquer'd all without the stain of blood; But lo, at last that wild infuriate band With savage war demands your happy land.

Beneath the dark immeasurable host, Descending, swarming, how the crags are lost!

Already now their ravening eyes behold Your star-bright temples and your gates of gold; And to their G.o.ds in fancied goblets pour The warm libation of your children's gore.

Move then to vengeance, meet the sons of blood, Led by this arm and lighted by that G.o.d; The strife is fierce, your fanes and fields the prize, The warrior conquers or the infant dies.

Fill'd with his fire, the troops in squared array Wait the wild hordes loose huddling to the fray; Their pointed arrows, rising on the bow, Look up the sky and chide the lagging foe.

Dread Zamor leads the homicidious train, Moves from the clefts and stretches o'er the plain.

He gives the shriek; the deep convulsing sound The hosts reecho, and the hills around Retain the rending tumult; all the air Clangs in the conflict of the clashing war; But firm undaunted as a shelvy strand That meets the surge, the bold Peruvians stand, With steady aim the sounding bowstring ply, And showers of arrows thicken thro the sky; When each grim host, in closer conflict join'd, Clench the dire ax and cast the bow behind; Thro broken ranks sweep wide their slaughtering course.

Now struggle back, now sidelong swray the force.

Here from grim chiefs is lopt the grisly head; All gride the dying, all deface the dead; There scattering o'er the field in thin array, Man tugs with man, and clubs with axes play; With broken shafts they follow and they fly, And yells and groans and shouts invade the sky; Round all the shatter'd groves the ground is strow'd With sever'd limbs and corses bathed in blood.

Long raged the strife; and where, on either side, A friend, a father or a brother died, No trace remain'd of what he was before, Mangled with horrid wounds and black with gore.

Now the Peruvians, in collected might, With one wide stroke had wing'd the savage flighty But their bright G.o.dhead, in his midday race, With glooms unusual veil'd his radiant face, Quench'd all his beams, tho cloudless, in affright, As loth to view from heaven the finish'd fight.

A trembling twilight o'er the welkin moves, Browns the dim void, and darkens deep the groves; The waking stars, embolden'd at the sight, Peep out and gem the antic.i.p.ated night; Day-birds, and beasts of light to covert fly, And owls and wolves begin their evening cry.

The astonish'd Inca marks, with wild surprise, Dead chills on earth, no cloud in all the skies, His host o'ershaded in the field of blood, Gored by his foes, deserted by his G.o.d.

Mute with amaze, they cease the war to wage, Gaze on their leaders and forget their rage; When pious Capac to the listening crowd Raised high his wand and pour'd his voice aloud: Ye chiefs and warriors of Peruvian race, Some sore offence obscures my father's face; What moves the Numen to desert the plain, Nor save his children, nor behold them slain?

Fly! speed your course, regain the guardian town, Ere darkness shroud you in a deeper frown; The faithful walls your squadrons shall defend, While my sad steps the sacred dome ascend, To learn the cause, and ward the woes we fear: Haste, haste, my sons! I guard the flying rear.

The hero spoke; the trembling tribes obey, While deeper glooms obscure the source of day.

Sudden the savage bands collect amain, Hang on the rear and sweep them o'er the plain; Their shouts, redoubling with the flying war.

Drown the loud groans and torture all the air.

The hawks of heaven, that o'er the field had stood, Scared by the tumult from the scent of blood, Cleave the far gloom; the beasts forget their prey, And scour the waste, and give the war its way.

Zamor elate with horrid joy beheld The Sun depart, his children fly the field, And raised his rending voice: Thou darkening sky, Deepen thy damps, the fiend of death is nigh; Behold him rising from his shadowy throne, To veil this heaven and drive the conquer'd Sun; The glaring G.o.dhead yields to sacred night, And his foil'd armies imitate his flight.

Confirm, infernal Power, thy rightful reign, Give deadlier shades and heap the piles of slain; Soon the young captive prince shall roll in fire, And all his race acc.u.mulate the pyre.

Ye mountain vultures, here your food explore, Tigers and condors, all ye G.o.ds of gore, In these rich fields, beneath your frowning sky, A plenteous feast shall every G.o.d supply.

Rush forward, warriors, hide the plains with dead; Twas here our friends in former combat bled; Strow'd thro the waste their naked bones demand This tardy vengeance from our conquering hand.

He said; and high before the Tiger-train With longer strides hangs forward o'er the slain, Bends like a falling tree to reach the foe, And o'er tall Capac aims a forceful blow.

The king beheld the ax, and with his wand Struck the raised weapon from the sachem's hand; Then clench'd the falling helve, and whirling round, Fell'd a close file of heroes to the ground; Nor stay'd, but follow'd where his people run, Fearing to fight, forsaken by the Sun; Till Cusco's walls salute their longing sight, And the wide gates receive their rapid flight.

The folds are barr'd, the foes in shade conceal'd, Like howling wolves, rave round the frighted field.

The monarch now ascends the sacred dome; The Sun's fixt image there partakes the gloom; Thro all the shrines, where erst on new-moon day Swell'd the full quires of consecrated praise, A tomb-like silence reigns; till female cries Burst forth at last, and these sad accents rise: Was it for this, my son to distant lands Must trace the wilds, and tempt those lawless bands?

And does the G.o.d obscure his golden throne In mournful darkness for my slaughter'd son?

Oh, had his beam; ere that disastrous day That call'd the youth from these fond arms away, Received my spirit to its native sky, That sad Oella might have seen him die!

Where slept thy shaft of vengeance, O my G.o.d, When those fell tigers drank his sacred blood?

Did not the pious prince, with rites divine, Feed the pure flame in this thy hallow'd shrine; And early learn, beneath his father's hand, To shed thy blessings round the favor'd land?

Form'd by thy laws the royal seat to grace, Son of thy son, and glory of his race.

Where, my lost Rocha, rests thy lovely head?

Where the rent robes thy hapless mother made?

I see thee, mid those hideous hills of snow, Pursued and slaughter'd by the wildman foe; Or, doom'd a feast for some pretended G.o.d, Drench his black altar with celestial blood.

s.n.a.t.c.h me, O Sun, to happier worlds of light-- No: shroud me, shroud me with thyself in night.

Thou hear'st me not, thou dread departed Power, Thy face is dark, and Rocha lives no more.

Thus heard the silent king; his equal heart Caught all her grief, and bore a father's part.

The cause, suggested by her tender moan, The cause perchance that veil'd the midday sun, And shouts that spoke the still approaching foe, Fixt him suspense, in all the strength of woe.

A doubtful moment held his changing choice; Now would he sooth her, half a.s.sumes his voice; But greater cares the rising wish control, And call forth all his energy of soul.

Why should he cease to ward the coming fate?

Or she be told the foes besiege the gate?

He turn'd in haste; and now their image-G.o.d High on the spire with newborn l.u.s.tre glow'd; Swift thro the portal flew the hero's eye, And hail'd the growing splendor in the sky.

The troops courageous at return of light Throng round the dome, impatient for the fight; The king descending in the portal stood, And thus addrest the all-delighting G.o.d: O sovereign Soul of heaven, thy changing face Makes or destroys the glory of thy race.

If from this mortal life my child he fled, First of thy line that ever graced the dead; If thy bright splendor ceased on high to burn For that loved youth who never must return.

Forgive thine armies, when in fields of blood They lose their strength and fear the frowning G.o.d.

As now thy glory, with superior day, Glows thro the field and leads the warrior's way, May our exalted souls, to vengeance driven, Burn with new brightness in the cause of heaven!

For thy slain son the murderous horde shall bleed; We mourn the hero, but avenge the deed.

He said; and from the battlement on high A watchful warrior raised a sudden cry: "An Inca white on yonder altar tied-- Tis Rocha's self--the flame ascends his side."