Sketches of Aboriginal Life: American Tableaux, No. 1Vide, V. V.
History
Sketches of Aboriginal Life: American Tableaux, No. 1
Vide, V. V.
Historical fiction; Indians of North America -- Fiction; Mexico -- History -- Conquest, 1519-1540 -- Fiction
I saw it too, and I heard the scream,
In the midst of my dark and troubled dream;
'Twas a dream of despair for our doomed land,
For his wings were bound by the royal hand;
His talons were wreathed with a golden chain,
He smelt the prey, and he chafed in vain,
For they trampled him down, in their brave career,
While our monarch looked on with unmanly fear,
Till his crown and his sceptre in dust were laid low,
And proud Tenochtitlan had passed to the foe.
The last words of this solemn chant died away on the ear, just as the
royal barge rounded the little artificial promontory, which the
ingenious Karee had constructed, for the double purpose of an arbor and
look-out, at one of the angles of her chinampa. Leaning over the brow,
and supporting herself by the overhanging branch of a luxuriant myrtle,
she dropped a wreath of evergreen upon the head of Tecuichpo, and said--
Oh! child of doom,
Thy long sealed destiny is come--
One brief, dark, dreadful night,
Then on those blessed eyes
Another day shall rise,
Fair, glorious, bright,
With an unearthly endless light.
Thou shall lay down
An earthly crown,
To win a starry sceptre in the skies
At this moment, signals were heard among the distant hills, which,
answered and repeated from countless stations along the wild sierras,
and reverberated by a thousand echoes as they came, burst upon the quiet
valley, like the confused shouts of a mighty host rushing to battle. It
fell like a death-knell upon the ear of Montezuma. It announced the
arrival, within the mountain wall which encompassed his golden valley,
of the dreaded strangers. It heralded their near approach to his
capital, and the exposure of all he held dear to their irresistible
power--their terrible rapacity. His heart sunk within him. But he had
gone too far to retract. It was the act of the gods, not his. Banishing
from his mind the impressions of the scenes just passed, he waved his
hand to the rowers, and instantly every prow was turned, and the gaily
caparisoned, but melancholy, terror-stricken pageant moved rapidly back
to the city.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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