Yet on push'd Morgan, silent on, And as he rode he lean'd and drew, From his catenas, gold, and threw The bright coins in the glaring sun. But Vasques did not heed a whit, He scarcely deign'd to scowl at it. Again lean'd Morgan! He uprose, And held a high hand to his foes, And held two goblets up, and one Did shine as if itself a sun. Then leaning backward from his place, He hurl'd them in his foemen's face, Then drew again, and so kept on, Till goblets, gold, and all were gone. Yea, strew'd them out upon the sands As men upon a frosty morn, In Mississippi's fertile lands, Hurl out great, yellow ears of corn To hungry swine with hurried hands. XXVI. Lo! still hot Vasques urges on, With flashing eye and flushing cheek. What would he have? what does he seek? He does not heed the gold a whit, He does not deign to look at it; But now his gleaming steel is drawn, And now he leans, would hail again,-- He opes his swollen lips in vain. But look you! See! A lifted hand, And Vasques beckons his command. He cannot speak, he leans, and he Bends low upon his saddle-bow. And now his blade drops to his knee, And now he falters, now comes on, And now his head is bended low; And now his rein, his steel, is gone; Now faint as any child is he, And now his steed sinks to the knee. XXVII. The sun hung molten in mid space, Like some great star fix'd in its place. From out the gleaming spaces rose A sheen of gossamer and danced, As Morgan slow and still advanced Before his far-receding foes. Right on and on the still black line Drove straight through gleaming sand and shine, By spar and beam and mast and stray, And waif of sea and cast-away. The far peaks faded from their sight, The mountain walls fell down like night, And nothing now was to be seen Save but the dim sun hung in sheen Of fairy garments all blood-red,-- The hell beneath, the hell o'erhead. A black man tumbled from his steed. He clutch'd in death the moving sands. He caught the round earth in his hands, He gripp'd it, held it hard and grim.... The great sad mother did not heed His hold, but pass'd right on from him, And ere he died grew far and dim. XXVIII. The sun seem'd broken loose at last, And settled slowly to the west, Half hidden as he fell a-rest, Yet, like the flying Parthian, cast His keenest arrows as he pass'd. On, on, the black men slowly drew Their length, like some great serpent through The sands, and left a hollow'd groove: They march'd, they scarcely seem'd to move. How patient in their muffled tread! How like the dead march of the dead!