HE mariners, meantime, at Ririd's will, Unreeve the rigging, and the masts they strike; And now ashore they haul the lightened hulks, Tear up the deck, the severed planks bear off, Disjoin the well-scarfed timbers, and the keel Loosen asunder; then to the lake-side Bear the materials, where the ocean lord Himself directs their work. Twelve vessels there, Fitted alike to catch the wind, or sweep With oars the moveless surface, they prepare; Lay down the keel, the stern-post rear, and fix The strong-curved timbers. Others from the wood Bring the tall pines, and from their hissing trunks Force, by the aid of fire, the needful gum; Beneath the close-caulked planks its odorous stream They pour; then, last, the round-projecting prows With iron arm, and launch, in uproar loud
Of joy, anticipating victories,
The gallies, long and sharp. The masts are reared, The sails are bent, and lo! the ready barks
It chanced, the Hoamen found A spy of Aztlan, and before the prince They led him. But when Madoc bade him tell, As his life-ransom, what his nation's force, And what their plans; the savage answered him, With dark and sullen eye, and smile of wrath, If aught the knowledge of my country's force Could profit thee, be sure, ère I would let My tongue play traitor, thou shouldst limb from limb Hew me, and make each separate member feel A separate agony of death. O prince!
But I will tell ye of my nation's force,
That ye may know, and tremble at your doom;
That fear may half subdue ye to the sword
Of vengeance... Can ye count the stars of heaven ?
The waves which ruffle o'er the lake? the leaves
Swept from the autumnal forest? Can ye look
Upon the eternal snows of yonder height,
And number each particular flake that formed
The mountain mass? . . so numberless they come,
Whoe'er can wield the sword, or hurl the lance,
Or aim the arrow; from the growing boy,
Ambitious of the battle, to the old man,
Who to revenge his country and his Gods
Hastens, and then to die. By land they come;
And years must pass away ere on their path
The grass again will grow they come by lake;
And ye shall see the shoals of their canoes
Darken the waters. Strangers! when our gods
Have conquered, when ye lie upon the stone
Of sacrifice extended, one by one,
Half of our armies cannot taste your flesh,
Though given in equal shares, and every share
Minced like a nestling's food!
Madoc replied,
Azteca, we are few; but through the woods
The lion walks alone. The lesser fowls
Flock multitudinous in heaven, and fly
Before the cagle's coming. We are few;
And yet thy nation hath experienced us
Enough for conquest. Tell thy countrymen,
We can defend the city which we won.
So saying, he turned away, rejoiced at heart
To know himself, alike by lake or land,
Prepared to meet their power. The fateful day
Draws on; by night the Aztecas embark.
At day-break, from Patamba, they set forth,
From every creek and inlet of the lake,
All moving toward Aztlan; safely thus
Weening to reach the plain before her walls,
And fresh for battle. Shine thou forth, O sun!
Shine fairly forth upon the scene so fair!
Their thousand boats, and the ten thousand oars,
From whose broad bowls the waters fall and flash,
And twice ten thousand feathered helms, and shields,
Glittering with gold and scarlet plumery.
Onward they come, with song and swelling horn;
While, louder than all voice and instrument,
The dash of their ten thousand oars, from shore
To shore, and hill to hill, re-echoing rolls,
In undistinguishable peals of sound,
And endless echo. On the other side
Advance the British barks; the freshening breeze
Fills the broad sail; around the rushing keel
The waters sing, while proudly they sail on,
Lords of the water. Shine thou forth, O sun;
Shine forth upon their day of victory!
Onward the Cymry speed. The Aztecas,
Though wondering at that unexpected sight,
Bravely made on to meet them, seized their bows,
And showered, like rain, upon the pavaised barks,
The rattling shafts. Strong blows the auspicious gale;
Madoc, the lord of ocean, leads the way;
He holds the helm; the galley where he guides
3 R4
Flies on, and full upon the first canoe
Drives, shattering; midway its long length it struck,
And o'er the wreck, with unimpeded force,
The astonished men
Gaze in inactive terror. They behold
Their splintered vessels floating all around,
Their warriors struggling in the lake, with arms
Experienced in the battle vainly now,
Dismayed, they drop their bows, and cast away
Their unavailing spears, and take to flight,
Before the masters of the elements,
Who rode the waters, and who made the winds
Wing them to vengeance! Forward now they bend,
And backward then, with strenuous strain of arm,
Press the broad paddle... Hope of victory
Was none, nor of defence, nor of revenge,
To sweeten death. Toward the shore they speed,
Toward the shore they lift their longing eyes:.
O fools, to meet on their own element
The sons of ocean! . . Could they but aland
Set foot, the strife were equal, or to die
Less dreadful. But, as if with wings of wind,
On fly the British barks! . . the favouring brecze
Blows strong; . . far, far behind their roaring keels
Lies the long line of foam; the helm directs
Their force they move, as with the limbs of life,
Obedient to the will that governs them.
Where'er they pass, the crashing shock is heard,
The dash of broken waters, and the cry
Of sinking multitudes. Here one plies fast
The practised limbs of youth, but o'er his head
The galley drives; one follows a canoe,
With skill availing only to prolong
Suffering; another, as, with wiser aim,
He swims across, to meet his coming friends,
Stunned by the hasty and unheeding oar,
Sinks senseless to the depths. Lo! yonder boat,
Graspt by the thronging strugglers; its light length
Yields to the overbearing weight, and all
Share the same ruin. Here, another shows
Crueller contest, where the crew hack off
The hands that hang for life upon its side,
Lest all together perish; then, in vain
The voice of friend or kinsman prays for mercy;
Imperious self controls all other thoughts;
And still they deal around unnatural wounds,
When the strong bark of Britain over all
Sails in the path of death. .. God of the lake,
Tlaloc! and thou, O Aiaub, green-robed Queen!
How many a wretch, in dying agonies,
Invoked ye in the misery of that day!
Long after, on the tainted lake, the dead
Weltered; there, perched upon his floating prey,
The vulture fed in daylight; and the wolves,
Assembled at their banquet round its banks,
Disturbed the midnight with their howl of joy.
From Sports of the Genii.
TAKE thy gift, and hear thy vow,"
Cry'd Cupid, as he bent his bow;
"And soon thy charming foe shall find
"We are not, as she thinks us, blind."
"Alas!" the suppliant Youth reply'd,
"She's guarded by a host of Pride;
"And Avarice, who never sleeps,
"The watch and ward continual keeps.
"I weep to think thy golden dart
"Can never reach her frozen heart:
"Or, if it should, the flames that play
"Around its point, would die away."
"If open force will not succeed,"
Return'd the God, we must proceed
"By stratagem:-from Fortune's wheel
"We'll take our aim, and make her feel.
"From thence the feather'd shaft shall fly,
"And, haply, strike upon her eye:
"By random shots some hearts are won :
"For Beauty's Queen assists her son.
"Report shall whisper in her ear
"Hopes of some thousand pounds a-year. "Two of the sentinels our own!
"Courage! my boy-we'll take the town."
ORBEAR! forbear!" Compassion cry'd; "Nor treat with cold insulting pride
"The Captive in thy pow'r.
"Behold her form, in beauty gay; ·
"Nor, in thy cruel, thoughtless play,
"Abridge her little hour.
"Poor trembling insect! easy caught!
"How distant, in thy simple thought,
"The danger when most near!
"Perhaps on Clytie's golden breast
"Thou sought for safety-hop'd for rest;
"And sorrow found thee there!
The muse shall mourn thy hapless fate; "For love can torture more than hate, "And will-because he may. "O may some star propitious beam, "And save thee from the dire extreme, "Speeding thy flight away!"
Written at Scarborough, in the Summer of 1805.
FROM POEMS BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.
LL hail to the ruins,* the rocks and the shores!
Thou wide-rolling ocean, all hail!
Now brilliant with sun-beams, and dimpled with oars,
Now dark with the fresh-blowing gale,
While soft o'er thy bosom the cloud-shadows sail,
And the silver-wing'd sea-fowl on high,
Like meteors bespangle the sky,
Or dive in the gulph, or triumphantly ride,
Like foam on the surges, the swans of the tide.
From the tumult and smoke of the city set free,
With eager and awful delight,
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