Part II, Madoc in Aztlan: XV

Not unprepared Cadwallon found the sons
Of Aztlan, nor defenceless were her walls ;
But when the Britons' distant march was seen,
A ready army issued from her gates,
And dight themselves to battle: these the King
Coanocotzin had, with timely care,
And provident for danger, thus arrayed.
Forth issuing from the gates, they met the foe,
And with the sound of sonorous instruments,
And with their shouts and screams and yells, drove back
The Britons' fainter war-cry, as the swell
Of ocean, flowing onward, up its course
Forces the river-stream. Their darts and stones
Fell like the rain-drops of the summer-shower,
So fast; and on the helmet and the shield,.
On the strong corselet and the netted mail,
So innocent they fell. But not in vain
The bowmen of Deheubarth sent, that day,
Their iron bolts abroad ; those winged deaths
Descended on the naked multitude,
And through the chieftain's quilted gossampine,
Through feathery breastplate, and effulgent gold,
They reached the life.

But soon no interval
For archer's art was left, nor scope for flight
Of stone from whirling sling ; both hosts, alike
Impatient for the proof of war, press on ;
The Aztecas, to shun the arrowy storm,
The Cymry, to release their Lord, or heap
Aztlan in ruins, for his monument.
Spear against spear, and shield to shield, and breast
To breast, they met; equal in force of limb
And strength of heart, in resolute resolve,
And stubborn effort of determined wrath : ,
The few, advantaged by their iron mail ;
The weaker armed, of near retreat assured,
And succour close at hand, in tenfold troops
Their foemen overnumbering. And of all
That mighty multitude, did every man
Of either host, alike inspired by all
That stings to will, and strengthens to perform,
Then put forth all his power; for well they knew
Aztlan that day must triumph or must fall.
Then sword and mace on helm and buckler rang,
And hurtling javelins whirred along the sky.
Nor when they hurled the javelin, did the sons
Of Aztlan, prodigal of weapons, loose
The lance, to serve them for no second stroke ;
A line of ample measure still retained
The missile shaft ; and when the blow was spent,
Swiftly the dexterous spearman coiled the string,
And sped again the artificer of death.
Rattling, like summer hailstones, they descend,
But from the Britons' iron panoply,
Baffled and blunted, fell ; nor more availed
The stony falchion there, whose broken edge
Inflicts no second wound ; nor profited,
On the strong buckler, or the crested helm,
The knotty club; though fast, in blinding showers,
Those javelins fly, those heavy weapons fall
With stunning weight. Meantime, with strength,
The men of Gwyneth through their fenceless foes
Those lances thrust, whose terrors had so oft
Aflray'd the Saxons, and whose home-driven points
So oft had pierced the Normen's knightly arms.
Little did then his pomp of plumes bestead
The Azteca, or glittering pride of gold,
Against the tempered sword ; little his casque,
Gay with its feathery coronal, or drest
In graven terrors, when the Briton's hand
Drove in, through helm and head, the spiked mace,
Or swung its iron weights, with shattering sway,
Which where they fell destroyed. Beneath those arms
The men of Aztlan sunk ; and whoso dropt,.
Dead or disabled, him his comrades bore
Away, with instant caution, lest the sight
Of those whom they had slaughtered might inspire
The foe with hope and courage. Fast they fell,
And fast were resupplied, man after man
Succeeding to the death. Nor in the town
Did now the sight of their slain countrymen,
Momently carried in, and piled in heaps,
Create one thought of fear. Hark! through the streets
Of Aztlan, how from house to house, and tower
To tower reiterate, Paynalton's name
Calls all her sons to battle! at whose name
All must go forth, and follow to the field
The Leader of the Armies of the Gods,
Whom, in his unseen power, Mexitli now
Sends out to lead his people. They, in crowds,
Throng for their weapons to the House of Arms,
Beneath their guardian Deity preserved,
Through years of peace ; and there the Pabas stood
Within the temple-court, and dealt around
The ablution of the Stone of Sacrifice,
Bidding them, with the holy beverage,
Imbibe diviner valour, strength of arm
Not to be wearied, hope of victory,
And certain faith of endless joy in Heaven,
Their sure reward. ..Oh! happy, cried the Priests,
Your brethren who have fallen ! already they
Have joined the company of blessed souls ;
Already they, with song and harmony,
And in the dance of beauty, are gone forth,
To follow, down his western path of light,
Yon Sun, the Prince of Glory, from the world
Retiring, to the palace of his rest.
Oh, happy they, who for their country's cause,
And for their Gods, shall die the brave man's death !
Them will their country consecrate with praise !
Them will Gods reward! .. They heard the Priests,
Intoxicate, and from the gate swarmed out,
Tumultuous, to the fight of martyrdom.

But when Cadwallon, every moment, saw
The enemies increase, and with what rage
Of drunken valour to the fight they rushed,
He, against that impetuous attack,
As best he could, providing, formed the troops
Of Britain into one collected mass.
Three equal sides it offered to the foe,
Close and compact ; no multitude could break.
The condensed strength : its narrow point prest on,
Entering the throng's resistance, like a wedge,
Still from behind impelled. So thought the Chief
Likeliest the gates of Aztlan might be gained,
And Hoel and the Prince preserved, if yet
They were among mankind. Nor could the force
Of hostile thousands break that strength condensed,
Against whose iron sides the stream of war
Rolled unavailing, as the ocean waves,
Which, idly, round some insulated rock,
Foam furious, warning, with their silvery smoke,
The mariner far off. Nor could the point
Of that compacted body, though it bore
Right on the foe, and, with united force,
Pressed on to enter, through the multitude
Win now its difficult way ; as where the sea
Pours through some strait its violent waters, swoln
By inland fresh, vainly the oarmen there,
With all their weight and strength, essay to drive
Their galley through the pass, the stress and strain
Availing scarce to stem the impetuous tide.

And hark! above the deafening din of fight,
Another shout, heard like the thunder-peal,
Amid the war of winds! Lincoya comes,
Leading the mountain-dwellers. From the shock
Aztlan recoiled. And now a second troop
Of Britons to the town advanced, for war
Impatient, and revenge. Cadwallon these,
With tidings of their gallant Prince enthralled,
Had summoned from ships. That dreadful tale
Roused them to fury. Not a man was left
To guard the fleet ; for who could have endured
That idle duty ? who could have endured
The long, inactive, miserable hours,
And hope, and expectation, and the rage
Of maddening anguish? Ririd led them on ;
In whom a brother's love had called not up
More spirit-stirring pain, than trembled now
In every British heart ; so dear to all
Was Madoc. On they came; and Aztlan then
Had fled appalled ; but, in that dangerous hour,
Her faith preserved her. From the gate, her Priests
Rushed desperate out, and to the foremost rank
Forced their wild way, and fought with martyr zeal.
Through all the host contagious fury spread:
Nor had the sight that hour enabled them
To mightier efforts, had Mexitli, clad
In all his imaged terrors, gone before
Their way, and driven upon his enemies
His giant club, destroying. Then more fierce
The conflict grew; the din of arms, the yell
Of savage rage, the shriek of agony,
The groan of death, commingled in one sound
Of undistinguished horrors; while the Sun,
Retiring slow beneath the plain's far verge,
Shed o'er the quiet hills his fading light.