For her as for himself he spake, When, his gaunt frame upbracing, As from the grave where Henry sleeps, So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone And hark! from thy deserted fields From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons And briers for corn-sheaves giving! O, more than all thy dead renown PEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? "Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!" Who is losing? who is winning? -"Over hill and over plain, Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more: "Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. "Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance! Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall; Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on: Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won ? "Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all! " "Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my brain! I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!" "O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee; Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see? O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee! mercy! mercy! all is o'er!". THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 57 Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest ;; Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled: Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied; With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died! "A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, Look forth once more, Ximena ! "Like a cloud before the wind Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death be hind; Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels! O, thou Christ of God, forgive!" Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, lacking food; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer, DEMOCRACY. "All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them."- Matthew vii. 12. EARER of Freedom's holy light, BE Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod, Beautiful yet thy temples rise, Though there profaning gifts are thrown; Are glaring round thy altar-stone. Still sacred, though thy name be breathed By those whose hearts thy truth deride; And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed Around the haughty brows of Pride. |