Poems (Proctor)/The Last Inca
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THE LAST INCA.2
In lone Caxamalca Pizarro awaits
The moment the Inca shall enter its gates,
His horsemen, his footmen, concealed in the halls,
Wide-portaled, that circle the plaza's gray walls;
For the people have fled to the camp of the king—
Till they find what the Spaniards fell presence will bring
The snowy tents marshalled his guests to dismay,
On the valley's green border a bird's flight away.
The dark plot is woven; the mass has been said;
Jehovah of battles invoked for their head;
And captain and soldier with valiant accord
Chanted, "Exsurge, Domine,—Rise, O Lord!"
The moment the Inca shall enter its gates,
His horsemen, his footmen, concealed in the halls,
Wide-portaled, that circle the plaza's gray walls;
For the people have fled to the camp of the king—
Till they find what the Spaniards fell presence will bring
The snowy tents marshalled his guests to dismay,
On the valley's green border a bird's flight away.
The dark plot is woven; the mass has been said;
Jehovah of battles invoked for their head;
And captain and soldier with valiant accord
Chanted, "Exsurge, Domine,—Rise, O Lord!"
"He comes!" cried the sentinel set in the tower;
"His legions, advancing, like thunder-clouds lower;
Hark! hear the wild songs the red heathen are singing
As they clear from his path every straw that is clinging!
And nearer, and nearer ... I see the bright swarm
Of nobles and guards that environ his form;
Their robes white and azure, their hair decked with gold,
Triumphant, unnumbered, their prince they en fold;
They sweep by the fortress; their lines curve apart;
Dios! 't is the Inca! . . . What glowing rays dart
From his throne, as a sun, on their shoulders borne high,
Plumed and gemmed with the Virgin's own altar to vie!
And there he reclines with the air of a god,
As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod;
On his brow the imperial borla is bound,
Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around,
And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies
Which only, they say, for his diadem flies;
His mantle, how gorgeous; and lo, while you listen,
I see at his throat his great emeralds glisten; . . .
He enters the gateway; his hordes follow fast;
Dios! we have trapped this proud pagan at last!"
"His legions, advancing, like thunder-clouds lower;
Hark! hear the wild songs the red heathen are singing
As they clear from his path every straw that is clinging!
And nearer, and nearer ... I see the bright swarm
Of nobles and guards that environ his form;
Their robes white and azure, their hair decked with gold,
Triumphant, unnumbered, their prince they en fold;
They sweep by the fortress; their lines curve apart;
Dios! 't is the Inca! . . . What glowing rays dart
From his throne, as a sun, on their shoulders borne high,
Plumed and gemmed with the Virgin's own altar to vie!
And there he reclines with the air of a god,
As if armies and kingdoms would fall at his nod;
On his brow the imperial borla is bound,
Its crimson fringe drooping his temples around,
And above float the plumes of that bird of the skies
Which only, they say, for his diadem flies;
His mantle, how gorgeous; and lo, while you listen,
I see at his throat his great emeralds glisten; . . .
He enters the gateway; his hordes follow fast;
Dios! we have trapped this proud pagan at last!"
The palanquin halts in the heart of the square;
And still every Spaniard hides deep in his lair.
"Now where are the strangers?" the grave Inca calls,
As he sees but his train 'twixt the compassing walls;
"I have come, at their craving, to sup with them here
In my own Caxamalca, and what should they fear?"
And still every Spaniard hides deep in his lair.
"Now where are the strangers?" the grave Inca calls,
As he sees but his train 'twixt the compassing walls;
"I have come, at their craving, to sup with them here
In my own Caxamalca, and what should they fear?"
Then forth strode Valverde, Pizarro's own priest,
Saint Dominic's friar, to bid to the feast;
A Bible, a crucifix, solemn he bears,
And straight through the throng to the Inca he fares.
With slightest obeisance, in sounding Castilian,—
While the monarch gazed calm from his golden pavilion,
And Philip, interpreter, stood at his side,—
"My commander has sent me to tell you," he cried,
"Of the Faith which is true and the King who is strong;
We have sailed the wide ocean to show you your wrong";—
And, deeming his creed would convince and appall,
Creation, the Trinity, Eden, the Fall,
The Saviour incarnate, his life, crucifixion,
Saint Peter, King Charles, and the Pope's malediction
On all who proved recreant, passed in review;
While Indian-Philip his words coined anew,
And added explainingly, "Christians adore
These three Gods and one God, and that will make four."
Thus ended Valverde: "The Pope, and our King,
Earth's mightiest ruler, have sent us to bring
This light in your darkness. Renounce your false ways
And learn the true God of the Spaniards to praise!
Become their good vassal;—so vengeance shall spare,
And you and your land have their fostering care."
Saint Dominic's friar, to bid to the feast;
A Bible, a crucifix, solemn he bears,
And straight through the throng to the Inca he fares.
With slightest obeisance, in sounding Castilian,—
While the monarch gazed calm from his golden pavilion,
And Philip, interpreter, stood at his side,—
"My commander has sent me to tell you," he cried,
"Of the Faith which is true and the King who is strong;
We have sailed the wide ocean to show you your wrong";—
And, deeming his creed would convince and appall,
Creation, the Trinity, Eden, the Fall,
The Saviour incarnate, his life, crucifixion,
Saint Peter, King Charles, and the Pope's malediction
On all who proved recreant, passed in review;
While Indian-Philip his words coined anew,
And added explainingly, "Christians adore
These three Gods and one God, and that will make four."
Thus ended Valverde: "The Pope, and our King,
Earth's mightiest ruler, have sent us to bring
This light in your darkness. Renounce your false ways
And learn the true God of the Spaniards to praise!
Become their good vassal;—so vengeance shall spare,
And you and your land have their fostering care."
"Atúc!" groaned the Inca, on fire when he heard;
His proud form dilated as word after word
Fell hot on his ear; and in answer he flames,
"What warrant has Pope or has King for his claims?"—
While the people's deep murmur crept out to the valley—
Where legion on legion would rise at his rally;
"This book," said Valverde; and sternly he placed
The Bible before him. The Inca in haste
Scans its pages; then dashed it disdainfully down:
His proud form dilated as word after word
Fell hot on his ear; and in answer he flames,
"What warrant has Pope or has King for his claims?"—
While the people's deep murmur crept out to the valley—
Where legion on legion would rise at his rally;
"This book," said Valverde; and sternly he placed
The Bible before him. The Inca in haste
Scans its pages; then dashed it disdainfully down:
"Tell your comrades the insults they offer my crown—
Their crimes in my realm they shall amply atone!
Know that I am most mighty--the strongest my throne;
Your King may be powerful—a brother I'll be—
But vassal to none on the land or the sea!
And my Faith—by the heavens! I never will alter!—
As soon shall the dawn in the glowing east falter!
Your own God, you tell me, was cruelly slain
By the men he created; hung, dead, in his pain;
But mine lives forever! my father, the Sun,
The deathless, the glorious, unchangeable One;—
Behold where he shines in celestial array!
Then back to your darkness! I bide with the day!"
Their crimes in my realm they shall amply atone!
Know that I am most mighty--the strongest my throne;
Your King may be powerful—a brother I'll be—
But vassal to none on the land or the sea!
And my Faith—by the heavens! I never will alter!—
As soon shall the dawn in the glowing east falter!
Your own God, you tell me, was cruelly slain
By the men he created; hung, dead, in his pain;
But mine lives forever! my father, the Sun,
The deathless, the glorious, unchangeable One;—
Behold where he shines in celestial array!
Then back to your darkness! I bide with the day!"
"Base hound!" said the friar, as stooping he caught
The book to his breast, and with quickened steps sought
Pizarro, who waited his coming within,—
"If you wish," he burst out, "the vast wager to win,
Talk no more with this dog full of malice and pride!
His clans fill the fields. Once our force is defied,
Nor wisdom nor courage their swarms can evade;—
Set on! I absolve you! and God be your aid!
The book to his breast, and with quickened steps sought
Pizarro, who waited his coming within,—
"If you wish," he burst out, "the vast wager to win,
Talk no more with this dog full of malice and pride!
His clans fill the fields. Once our force is defied,
Nor wisdom nor courage their swarms can evade;—
Set on! I absolve you! and God be your aid!
"'T is the hour!" cried Pizarro; and, boldest to dare,
The white scarf, his signal, waves ghostly in air!
Like thunder on Andes the fortress gun roars,
And horsemen and footmen spring fierce from the doors;
"Saint Jago and at them!" they shout as they come,
And nobles and people bewildered and dumb,
Unarmed and defenseless, are slaughtered like sheep
In the pit of the shambles! The dread horses leap
On their quivering forms as they cower from the stroke
Of the sabres that flash through the eddying smoke,
As they writhe with the balls from the muskets outpoured,—
And all in the name of the merciful Lord!
Yet still through the horror, the anguish, the stress,
Round their heaven-born Inca devoted they press;
At his feet lie his princes, the dying, the dead,
But others crowd eager to stand in their stead,
And, trampled and mangled, no weapons to wield,
Seek yet from the fiends their loved monarch to shield!
As a bark on the billows his litter is swayed
By the rush and the blast of the mad cavalcade;—
Ho! the bearers have fallen! The Inca is down!
Estete has snatched his imperial crown!
And, dragged and despoiled by the ravaging host,
His bright vesture sullied, his jewels the boast
Of his captors, they seize him and bear him away,
Strong-guarded, as fades the last glory of day!...
Then a shadow stole over the face of the Sun
In the shrines; and a wail from the sweet winds that run
Through the dusk, thrilled the air; but no star could deliver;—
The light of the Incas had vanished forever! . . .
And his people, bereft of their Child of the Sky,
Break wild through the wall in their terror, and fly
To the vales, to the mountains, cut down as they go
By the sword and the shot and the hoof of the foe! . . .
Now night o'er the scene spreads her pitying pall;—
"Bid the trumpets," Pizarro cries, "sound a recall,
And Te Deums be sung, for Jehovah has given
This might to our arms, else in vain we had striven!"
And the chants, and the groans of the dying, as one,
Went up to the Lord when the carnage was done.
The white scarf, his signal, waves ghostly in air!
Like thunder on Andes the fortress gun roars,
And horsemen and footmen spring fierce from the doors;
"Saint Jago and at them!" they shout as they come,
And nobles and people bewildered and dumb,
Unarmed and defenseless, are slaughtered like sheep
In the pit of the shambles! The dread horses leap
On their quivering forms as they cower from the stroke
Of the sabres that flash through the eddying smoke,
As they writhe with the balls from the muskets outpoured,—
And all in the name of the merciful Lord!
Yet still through the horror, the anguish, the stress,
Round their heaven-born Inca devoted they press;
At his feet lie his princes, the dying, the dead,
But others crowd eager to stand in their stead,
And, trampled and mangled, no weapons to wield,
Seek yet from the fiends their loved monarch to shield!
As a bark on the billows his litter is swayed
By the rush and the blast of the mad cavalcade;—
Ho! the bearers have fallen! The Inca is down!
Estete has snatched his imperial crown!
And, dragged and despoiled by the ravaging host,
His bright vesture sullied, his jewels the boast
Of his captors, they seize him and bear him away,
Strong-guarded, as fades the last glory of day!...
Then a shadow stole over the face of the Sun
In the shrines; and a wail from the sweet winds that run
Through the dusk, thrilled the air; but no star could deliver;—
The light of the Incas had vanished forever! . . .
And his people, bereft of their Child of the Sky,
Break wild through the wall in their terror, and fly
To the vales, to the mountains, cut down as they go
By the sword and the shot and the hoof of the foe! . . .
Now night o'er the scene spreads her pitying pall;—
"Bid the trumpets," Pizarro cries, "sound a recall,
And Te Deums be sung, for Jehovah has given
This might to our arms, else in vain we had striven!"
And the chants, and the groans of the dying, as one,
Went up to the Lord when the carnage was done.