Classic Poem

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
Repels the river-stream. Their darts and stones
Fell like the rain drops of the summer-shower,
So fast, and on the helmet and the shield,
On the strong corselet and the netted mail,
So innocent they fell. But not in vain
The bowmen of Deheubarth sent, that day,
Their iron bolts abroad; those volant deaths
Descended on the naked multitude,
And through the chieftain's quilted gossampine,
Through feathery breastplate and effulgent gold,
They reach'd the life.
But soon no interval
For archers' art was left, nor scope for flight
Of stone from whirling sling: both hosts, alike
Impatient for the proof of war, press on;
The Aztecas, to shun the arrowy storm,
The Cymry, to release their Lord, or heap
Aztlan in ruins, for his monument.
Spear against spear, and shield to shield, and breast
To breast, they met; equal in force of limb,
And strength of heart, in resolute resolve
And stubborn effort of determined wrath:
The few, advantaged by their iron mail;
The weaklier arm'd, of near retreat assured
And succor close at hand, in tenfold troops
Their foemen overnumbering. And of all
That mighty multitude, did every man
Of either host, alike inspired by all
That stings to will and strengthens to perform,
Then put forth all his power; for well they knew
Aztlan that day must triumph or must fall.
Then sword and mace on helm and buckler rang,
And hurtling javelins whirr'd along the sky.
Nor when they hurled the javelin, did the sons
Of Aztlan, prodigal of weapons, loose
The lance, to serve them for no second stroke;
A line of ample measure still retain'd
The missile shaft; and when its blow was spent,
Swiftly the dexterous spearman coiled the string,
And sped again the artificer of death.
Rattling, like summer hailstones, they descend,
But from the Britons' iron panoply,
Baffled and blunted, fell; nor more avail'd
The stony falchion there, whose broken edge
Inflicts no second wound; nor profited,
On the strong buckler or the crested helm,
The knotty club; though fast, in blinding showers,
Those javelins fly, those heavy weapons fail
With stunning weight. Meantime, with strength,
The men of Gwyneth through their fence hear
Those lances thrust, whose terrors had so oft
Affrayed the Saxons, and whose home points
So oft had pierced the Normen's knightly are not
Little did then his pomp of plumes bestead
The Azteca, or glittering pride of gold,
Against the tempered sword; little his casque
Gay with its feathery coronal, or dress'd
In graven terrors, when the Britons' hand
Drove in through helm and head the short-mace;
Or swung its iron weights with shattering swung
Which, where they struck, destroyed. Be those arms
The men of Aztlan fell; and whoso dropp'd
Dead or disabled, him his comrades bore
Away with instant caution, lest the sight
Of those whom they had slaughtered might
The foe with hope and courage. Fast they fell
And fast were resupplied, man after man,
Succeeding to the death. Nor in the town
Did now the sight of their slain countrymen,
Momentarily carried in and piled in heaps,
Awake one thought of fear. Hark! through streets
Of Aztlan, how from house to house, and tower
To tower, reiterate, Paynalton's name
Calls all her sons to battle! at whose name
All must go forth, and follow to the field
The Leader of the Armies of the Gods,
Whom, in his unseen power, Mexitli now
Sends out to lead his people. They, in crow
Throng for their weapons to the House of Arm
Beneath their guardian Deity preserved,
Through years of peace; and there the Pabased
Within the temple-court, and dealt around
The ablution of the Stone of Sacrifice,
Bidding them, with the holy beverage,
Imbibe diviner valor, strength of arm
Not to be wearied, hope of victory,
And certain faith of endless joy in Heaven
Their sure reward. — Oh, happy, cried the Priest
Your brethren who have fallen! already they
Have joined the company of blessed souls
Already they, with song and harmony,
And in the dance of beauty, are gone forth,
To follow down his western path of light
Yon Sun, the Prince of Glory, from the work
Retiring to the Palace of his rest.
Oh, happy they, who, for their country's cans
And for their Gods, shall die the brave man death!
Them will their country consecrate with prame
Them will the Gods reward! — They heard Priests
Intoxicate, and from the gate swarmed out,
Tumultuous, to the fight of martyrdom.

But when Cadwallon every moment saw
The enemies increase, and with what rage
Of drunken valor to the fight they rush'd,
He, against that impetuous attack,
As best he could, providing, form'd the troops
Of Britain into one collected mass:
Three equal sides it offered to the foe,
Close and compact; no multitude could break
The condensed strength; its narrow point press'd on,
Entering the throng's resistance, like a wedge,
Still from behind impell'd. So, thought the Chief,
Likeliest the gates of Aztlan might be gain'd,
And Hoel and the Prince preserved, if yet
They were among mankind. Nor could the force
Of hostile thousands break that strength condensed,
Against whose iron sides the stream of war
Roll'd unavailing, as the ocean waves
Which idly round some insulated rock
Foam furious, warning with their silvery smoke
The mariner far off. Nor could the point
Of that compacted body, though it bore
Right on the foe, and with united force
Press'd on to enter, through the multitude
Win now its difficult way; as where the sea
Pours through some strait its violent waters, swoln
By inland fresh, vainly the oarmen there
With all their weight and strength essay to drive
Their galley through the pass, the stress and strain
Availing scarce to stem the impetuous stream.

And hark! above the deafening din of fight
Another shout, heard like the thunder-peal,
Amid the war of winds! Lincoya comes,
Leading the mountain-dwellers. From the shock
Aztlan recoil'd. And now a second troop
Of Britons to the town advanced, for war
Impatient and revenge. Cadwallon these,
With tidings of their gallant Prince enthrall'd,
Had summoned from the ships. That dreadful tale
Roused them to fury. Not a man was left
To guard the fleet; for who could have endured
That idle duty? who could have endured
The long, inactive, miserable hours,
And hope, and expectation, and the rage
Of maddening anguish? Ririd led them on;
In whom a brother's love had call'd not up
More spirit-stirring pain, than trembled now
In every British heart; so dear to all
Was Madoc. On they came; and Aztlan then
Had fled appall'd; but in that dangerous hour
Her faith preserved her. From the gate her Priests
Rush'd desperate out, and to the foremost rank
Forced their wild way, and fought with martyr zeal.
Through all the host contagious fury spread;
Nor had the sight that hour enabled them
To mightier efforts, had Mexitli, clad
In all his imaged terrors, gone before
Their way, and driven upon his enemies
His giant club destroying. Then more fierce
The conflict grew; the din of arms, the yell
Of savage rage, the shriek of agony,
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguished horrors: while the Sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain's far verge,
Shed o'er the quiet hills his fading light.