Whilst the Indians sang and bellow’d
Silently the Spaniards struggled,
Step by step with toil and labour
For their flight a footing gaining.
Fighting thus in narrow passes
Small to-day the’ advantage lying
In old Europe’s strategy,
Or her cannons, armour, horses.
Many Spaniards in addition
With the gold were heavy laden,
Lately captured or extorted—
Ah! that yellow load of sin
Lamed and hemm’d them in the conflict,
And the devilish metal proved
Not to the poor spirit only
Ruinous, but to the body.
And meanwhile the lake around them
With canoes and barks was cover’d;
Archers in them sat, all shooting
At the rafts and forts and bridges.
True they hit in the confusion
Many of their Indian brethren,
But they also hit full many
Excellent and brave hidalgos.
On the third bridge fell at last
Poor young Gaston, who was bearing
On that day the flag whereon
Was the Holy Virgin’s image.
E’en this image’ self was struck
By the missiles of the Indians;
Six such missiles were left sticking
In its very heart,—bright arrows,
Like those swords of golden colour
Which transfix the sorrowing bosom
Of the Mater Dolorosa
In Good Friday’s sad procession.
Gaston, when he died, made over
His proud banner to Gonsalvo,
Who soon afterwards was stricken
E’en to death, and died. Then Cortez