| |
| SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, | |
| O’er the camp of the invaders, o’er the Mexican array, | |
| Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? | |
| Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. | |
| |
| “Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls; | 5 |
| Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!” | |
| Who is losing? who is winning?—“Over hill and over plain, | |
| I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain.” | |
| |
| Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more. | |
| “Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, | 10 |
| 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; | 15 |
| 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.” | 20 |
| |
| 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! | 25 |
| 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? | 30 |
| O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more | |
| On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o’er!” | |
| |
| Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; | |
| Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; | |
| Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said: | 35 |
| To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. | |
| |
| Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, | |
| Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away; | |
| But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, | |
| She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. | 40 |
| |
| With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; | |
| With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead; | |
| But she heard the youth’s low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, | |
| And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. | |
| |
| Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled: | 45 |
| 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, | |
| From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!” | 50 |
| Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, | |
| And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. | |
| |
| Look forth once more, Ximena! “Like a cloud before the wind | |
| Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind; | |
| Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive; | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| |
| But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, | |
| Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and 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; | 65 |
| Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers; | |
| From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their prayer, | |
| And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air! | |
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