Zinzendorff and Other Poems/The Conquerors of Spain

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4049334Zinzendorff and Other PoemsThe Conquerors of Spain1836Lydia Huntley Sigourney


THE CONQUERORS OF SPAIN.

"There are still found in South America, some of the first conquerors of the New-World, who at the commencement of the sixteenth century, in searching for the rich mines that had been described to them, took a long and circuitous route among the mountains of Peru, and perished by the cold, which at once petrified and preserved them."
Bomare.

Why choose ye out such dizzy height
    Amid yon drear domain,
Your ice-bound cell forever white,
    Ye haughty men of Spain?

The Condor on his mighty wing
    Doth scale your cloud-wreath'd walls,
But to his scream their caverns ring,
    As from the cliff he falls.

The poor Peruvian scans with dread
    Your fix'd, and stony eye,
The timid child averts his head,
    And faster hurries by,
They from the fathers of the land
    Have heard your withering tale,
Nor spare to mock the tyrant band
    Transform'd to statues pale.

Ye came to grasp the Indian's gold,
    Ye scorn'd his feathery dart,
But Andes rose, that monarch old,
    And took his children's part,
And with that strange embalming art
    Which ancient Egypt knew,
He threw his frost-chain o'er your heart,
    As to his breast ye grew.

He chain'd you while strong manhood's tide
    Did through your bosoms roll,
Upon your lip the curl of pride,
    And avarice in your soul,
Strange slumber stole with mortal pang
    Across the frozen plain,
And thunder-blasts your sentence rang,
    "Sleep and ne'er wake again."


Uprose the moon, the Queen of night
    Danc'd with the Protean tide,
And years fulfill'd their measur'd flight,
    And ripening ages died,
Slow centuries in oblivion's flood
    Sank like the tossing wave,
But changeless and transfix'd ye stood,
    The dead without a grave.

The infant wrought its flowery span
    On Love's maternal breast,
And whiten'd to a hoary man,
    And laid him down to rest,
Race after race, with weary moan
    Went to their dreamless sleep,
While ye, upon your feet of stone,
    Perpetual penance keep.

How little deem'd ye, when ye hurl'd
    Your challenge o'er the main,
And vow'd to teach a new-born world
    The vassalage of Spain,
Thus till the doom's-day cry of pain
    Shall rive your prison-rock,
To bear upon your brow like Cain,
    A mark that all might mock.

But long from high Castilian bowers
    Look'd forth the inmates fair,
And gave the tardy midnight hours
    To watching and despair,

Oft starting as some light guitar
    Its breath of sweetness shed,
Yet lord and lover linger'd far
    Till life's brief vision fled.

Their vaunted tournament is o'er,
    Their knightly lance in rest,
Ambition's fever burns no more
    Within their conquering breast,
For high between the earth and skies,
    Check'd in their venturous path,
A fearful monument they rise,
    Of Andes vengeful wrath.