English

Maid of the golden locks, far other lot
May gentle Heaven assign thy happier love,
Blue-eyed Senena! — She, though not as yet
Had she put off her boy-habiliments,
Had told Goervyl' all the history
Of her sad flight, and easy pardon gain'd
From that sweet heart, for guile which men no ill,
And secrecy, in shame too long maintain'd
With her dear Lady now, at this still hour
Of evening is the seeming page gone forth,
Beside Caermadoc mere. They loitered on,
Along the windings of its grassy shore,

A ZTLAN , meantime, presents a hideous scene
Of slaughter. The hot sunbeam, in her streets,
Parch'd the blood pools; the slain were heap'd in hills;
The victors, stretch'd in every little shade,
With unhelm'd heads, reclining on their shields,
Slept the deep sleep of weariness. Erelong,
To needful labor rising, from the gates
They drag the dead; and with united toil,
They dig upon the plain the general grave,
The grave of thousands, deep, and wide, and long.
Ten such they delved, and o'er the multitudes

A transitory gloom that sight of death
Impress'd upon the assembled multitude;
But soon the brute and unreflecting crew
Turn'd to their sports. Some bare their olive limbs,
And in the race contend; with hopes and fear
Which rouse to rage, some urge the mimie
Here one upon his ample shoulders bears
A comrade's weight, upon whose head a third
Stands poised, like Mercury in act to fly.
Two others balance here on their shoulders
A bifork'd beam, while on its height a third
To nimble cadence shifts his glancing feet,

When now the multitude beheld their King,
In gratulations of reiterate joy
They shout his name, and bid him lead them on
To vengeance. But to answer that appeal
Tezozomoc advanced. — Oh! go not forth,
Cried the Chief Paba, till the land be purged
From her offence! No God will lead ye on,
While there is guilt in Aztlan. Let the Priests
Who from the ruined city have escaped,
And all who in her temples have perform'd
The ennobling service of her injured Gods,
Gather together now.
He spake; the train

Southward of Aztlan stood, beside the Lake,
A city of the Aztecas, by name
Patamba. Thither, from the first alarm,
The women and infirm old men were sent,
And children: thither they who from the fight,
And from the fall of Aztlan, had escaped,
In scattered bands, repair'd. Their City lost,
Their Monarch slain, their Idols overthrown, —
These tidings spread dismay; but to dismay
Succeeded horror soon, and kindling rage;
Horror, by each new circumstance increased,
By numbers, rage imbolden'd. Lo! to the town,

Merciful God! how horrible is night
Upon the plain of Aztlan! there the shout
Of battle, the barbarian yell, the bray
Of dissonant instruments, the clang of arms,
The shriek of agony, the groan of death,
In one wild uproar and continuous din,
Shake the still air; while, overhead, the Moon,
Regardless of the stir of this low world,
Holds on her heavenly way. Still unallay'd
By slaughter raged the battle, unrelax'd
By lengthened toil; anger supplying still
Strength undiminish'd for the desperate strife.

Madoc, meantime, in bonds and solitude,
Lay listening to the tumult. How his heart
Panted! how then, with fruitless strength, he strove
And struggled for enlargement, as the sound
Of battle from without the city came;
While all things near were still, nor foot of man,
Nor voice, in that deserted part, were heard.
At length one light and solitary step
Approach'd the place; a woman cross'd the door;
From Madoc's busy mind her image pass'd
Quick as the form that caused it; but not so
Did the remembrance fly from Coatel,

Not unprepared Cadwallon found the sons
Of Aztlan, nor defenceless were her walls;
But when the Britons' distant march was seen,
A ready army issued from her gates,
And dight themselves to battle: these the King
Coanocotzin had, with timely care,
And provident for danger, thus arrayed.
Forth issuing from the gates, they met the foe,
And with the sound of sonorous instruments,
And with their shouts, and screams, and yells, drove back
The Britons' fainter war-cry, as the swell
Of ocean, flowing onward, up its course

Who comes to Aztlan, bounding like a deer
Along the plain? — The herald of success;
For, lo! his locks are braided, and his loins
Cinctured with white; and see, he lifts the shield,
And brandishes the sword. The populace
Flock round, impatient for the tale of joy,
And follow to the palace in his path.
Joy! joy! the Tiger hath achieved his quest!
They bring a captive home! — Triumphantly
Coanocotzin and his Chiefs go forth
To greet the youth triumphant, and receive
The victim, whom the gracious gods have given,

That morn from Aztlan Coatel had gone,
In search of flowers, amid the woods and crags,
To deck the shrine of Coatlantona;
Such flowers as in the solitary wilds
Hiding their modest beauty, made their worth
More valued for its rareness. 'Twas to her
A grateful task; not only for she fled
Those cruel rites, to which nor reverent use
Nor frequent custom could familiarize
Her gentle heart, and teach it to put off
All womanly feeling; — but that from all eyes
Escaped, and all obtrusive fellowship,