But when the Lord of Ocean from the stir
And tumult was retired, Cadwallon then
Thus render'd his account.
When we had quell'd
The strength of Aztlan, we should have thrown down
Her Altars, cast her Idols to the fire,
And on the ruins of her fanes accurs'd
Planted the Cross triumphant. Vain it is
To sow the seed where noxious weeds and briers
Must choke it in the growth.
Yet I had hope
The purer influence of exampled good
Might to the saving knowledge of the truth
Lead this bedarken'd race; and when thy ship
Fell down the stream to distant Britain bound,
All promised well. The stranger's God had proved
Mightier in war; and Aztlan could not choose
But see, nor seeing could she fail to love,
The freedom of his service. Few were now
The offerings at her altars, few the youths
And virgins to the temple-toils devote.
Therefore the Priests combined to save their craft;
And soon the rumor ran of evil signs
And tokens; in the temple had been heard
Wailings and loud lament; the eternal fire
Gave dismally a dim and doubtful flame;
And from the censer, which at morn should steam
Sweet odors to the sun, a fetid cloud,
Black and portentous, rose. And now no Priest
Approach'd our dwelling. Even the friendly Prince
Yuhidthiton was at Caermadoc now
Rarely a guest; and if that tried good-will
Which once he bore us did at times appear,
A sullen gloom and silence, like remorse,
Followed the imagined crime.
But I the while
Reck'd not the brooding of the storm; for then
My father to the grave was hastening down.
Patiently did the pious man endure,
In faith anticipating blessedness,
Already more than man in those sad hours
When man is meanest. I sat by his side,
And pray'd with him, and talk'd with him of death
And life to come. O Madoc! those were hours
Which even in anguish gave my soul a joy:
I think of them in solitude, and feel
The comfort of my faith.
But when that time
Of bitterness was past, and I return'd
To daily duties, no suspicious sign
Betoken'd ill; the Priests among us came
As heretofore, and I their intercourse
Encouraged as I could, suspecting nought,
Nor conscious of the subtle-minded men
I dealt with, how inveterate in revenge,
How patient in deceit. Lincoya first
Forewarn'd me of the danger. He, thou know'st,
Had from the death of sacrifice escaped,
And lived a slave among a distant tribe,
When, seeing us, he felt a hope, that we,
Lords, as he deem'd us, of the Elements,
Might pity his poor countrymen oppress'd,
And free them from their bondage. Didst thou hear
How from yon bloody altars he was saved?
For in the eternal chain his fate and ours
Were link'd together then.
The Prince replie
I did but hear a broken tale. Tell on!

Among the Gods of yon unhappy race,
Tezcalipoca as the chief they rank,
Or with the Chief co-equal; Maker he,
And Master of created things esteem'd.
He sits upon a throne of trophied skulls,
Hideous and huge; a shield is on his arm,
And with his black right hand he lifts, as though
In wrath, the menacing spear. His festival,
Of all this wicked nation's wicked rites,
With most solemnity, and circumstance,
And pomp of hellish piety, is held.
From all whom evil fortune hath subdued
To their inhuman thraldom, they select
Him whom they judge, for comely countenance
And shapely form, and all good natural gifts,
Worthiest to be the victim; and for this
Was young Lincoya chosen, being in truth
The flower of all his nation. For twelve month
Their custom is, that this appointed youth
Be as the Idol's living image held.
Garb'd therefore like the Demon Deity,
Whene'er he goes abroad, an antic train
With music and with dance attend his way;
The crowd before him fall and worship him;
And those infernal Priests who guard him then,
To be their victim and their feast at last,
At morning and at evening incense him,
And mock him with knee-reverence. Twenty days
Before the bloody festival arrive,
As 'twere to make the wretch in love with life,
Four maids, the loveliest of the land, are given
In spousals. With Lincoya all these rites
Duly were kept; and at the stated time,
Four maids, the loveliest of the land, were his.
Of these was one, whom even at that hour,
He learnt to love, so excellently good
Was she; and she loved him and pitied him.
She is the daughter of an aged Priest;
I oftentimes have seen her; and in truth,
Compared with Britain's maids, so beautiful,
Or with the dark-eyed daughters of the South,
She would be lovely still: Her cotton vest
Falls to the knee, and leaves her olive arms
Bare in their beauty; loose, luxuriant, long,
Flow the black tresses of her glossy hair;
Mild is her eye's jet lustre; and her voice! —
A soul which harbor'd evil never breathed
Such winning tones.
Thou know'st how manfully,
These tribes, as if insensible to pain,
Welcome their death in battle, or in bonds
Defy their torturers. To Lincoya's mind
Long preparation now had made his fate
Familiar; and, he says, the thought of death
Broke not his sleep, nor mingled with his dreams.
Till Coätel was his. But then it woke; —
It hung, — it press'd upon him like a weight
On one who scarce can struggle with the waves
And when her soul was full of tenderness,
That thought recurring to her, she would rest
Her cheek on his, and weep.
The day drew nigh;
And now the eve of sacrifice was come. —
What will not woman, gentle woman, dare,
When strong affection stirs her spirit up? —
She gather'd herbs, which, like our poppy, bear
The seed of sleep, and with the temple-food
Mingled their power; herself partook the food,
So best to lull suspicion; and the youth,
Instructed well, when all were laid asleep,
Fled far away.
After our conquering arms
Had freed the Hoamen from their wretched yoke,
Lincoya needed but his Coätel
To fill his sum of earthly happiness.
Her to the temple had her father's vow
Awhile devoted, and some moons were still
To pass away, ere yet she might become
A sojourner with us, Lincoya's wife,
When from the Paba's wiles his watchful mind
Foreboded ill. He bade me take good heed,
And fear the sudden kindness of a foe.
I started at his words; — these artful men,
Hostile at heart, as well we knew they were,
These were lip-lavish of their friendship now,
And courted confidence, while our tried friend
Yuhidthiton, estranged, a seldom guest,
Sullen and joyless, seem'd to bear at heart
Something that rankled there. These things were strange;
The omens too had ceased; — we heard no more
Of twilight voices, nor the unholy cloud
Steam'd from the morning incense. Why was this?

Young Malinal had from the hour of peace
Been our in-dweller, studious to attain
Our language and our arts. To him I told
My doubts, assured of his true love and truth;
For he had learnt to understand and feel
Our holy faith, and tended like a son
Cynetha's drooping age, and shared with me
His dying benediction. He, thus long
Intent on better things, had been estranged
From Aztlan and her councils; but at this
He judged it for her welfare and for ours,
Now to resume his rank; — belike his voice
Might yet be heard, or, if the worst befell,
His timely warning save us from the snare.

But in their secret councils Malinal
No longer bore a part; the Chiefs and King
Yielding blind reverence to the Pabas now,
Deluded or dismay'd. He sent to say,
Some treachery was design'd, and bade me charge
His brother with the crime. On that same day,
Lincoya came from Aztlan; he had found
Coätel laboring with a wretchedness
She did not seek to hide; and when the youth
Reveal'd his fear, he saw her tawny cheek
Whiten, and round his neck she clung and wept.
She told him something dreadful was at hand,
She knew not what: That, in the dead of night,
Coänocotzin at Mexitli's shrine
Had stood with all his nobles; human blood
Had then been offer'd up, and secret vows
Vow'd with mysterious horror: That but late,
When to her father of the days to come
She spake, and of Lincoya and her lot
Among the strangers, he had frown'd, and strove,
Beneath dissembled anger, to conceal
Visible grief. She knew not what to fear;
But something dreadful surely was at hand,
And she was wretched.
When I heard these things,
Yuhidthiton and the Priest Helhua
Were in our dwellings. Them I call'd apart —
There should be peace between us, I began;
Why is it otherwise?
The Priest replied,
Is there not peace, Cadwallon? Seek we not
More frequent and more friendly intercourse,
Even we, the servants of our Country-Gods,
Whose worship ye have changed, and for whose sake
We were, and would have been, your enemies?
But as those Gods have otherwise ordain'd,
Do we obey. Why, therefore, is this doubt?

The Power who led us hither, I replied,
Over the world of waters, who hath saved,
And who will save his people, warns me now.
Then on Yuhidthiton I fix'd my eye.
Danger is near! I cried; I know it near!
It comes from Aztlan.
His disorder'd cheek,
And the forced and steady boldness of his eye,
Which in defiance met the look it fear'd,
Confess'd the crime. I saw his inward shame;
Yet with a pride like angry innocence
Did he make answer, I am in your hands,
And you believe me treacherous! — Kill me now!

Not so, Yuhidthiton! not so! quoth];
You were the Strangers' friend, and yet again
That wisdom may return. We are not changed; —
Lovers of peace, we know, when danger comes,
To make the evil on the guilty head
Fall heavily and sure! With our good arms,
And our good cause, and that Almighty One,
We are enough, had we no other aid,
We of Caermadoc here, to put to shame
Aztlan, with all her strength and all her wiles.
But even now is Madoc on the seas;
He leads our brethren here; and should he find
That Aztlan hath been false, — oh! hope not then,
By force or fraud, to baffle or elude
Inevitable vengeance! While ye may,
Look to your choice; for we are friends or foes,
Even to your own desert.
So saying, I left
The astonish'd men, whose unprovided minds
Fail'd them; nor did they aim at answer more,
But homeward went their way. Nor knew I then —
For this was but a thing of yesterday —
How near the help I boasted. Now I trust
Thy coming shall discomfit all their wiles.