How oft I've fed thee with my favourite grain! And roar'd, like thee, to find thy children slain!
Yes, swains who know her various worth to prize, Ah! house her well from winter's angry skies. Potatoes, pumpkins, should her sadness cheer, Corn from your crib, and mashes from your beer; When spring returns, she'll well acquit the loan, And nurse at once your infants and her own.
Milk then with pudding I would always choose; To this in future I confine my muse, Till she in haste some further hints unfold, Well for the young, nor useless to the old. First in your bowl the milk abundant take, Then drop with care along the silver lake Your flakes of pudding; these at first will hide Their little bulk beneath the swelling tide; But when their growing mass no more can sink, When the soft island looms above the brink, Then check your hand; you've got the portion due, So taught our sires, and what they taught is true. There is a choice in spoons. Though small appear
The nice distinction, yet to me 'tis clear.
The deep-bowl'd Gallic spoon, contrived to scoop In ample draughts the thin diluted soup, Performs not well in those substantial things, Whose mass adhesive to the metal clings; Where the strong labial muscles must embrace The gentle curve, and sweep the hollow space. With ease to enter and discharge the freight, A bowl less concave but still more dilate, Becomes the pudding best. The shape, the size, A secret rests, unknown to vulgar eyes. Experienced feeders can alone impart
A rule so much above the lore of art.
These tuneful lips, that thousand spoons have tried, With just precision could the point decide,
Though not in song; the muse but poorly shines In cones, and cubes, and geometric lines;
Yet the true form, as near as she can tell, Is that small section of a goose egg shell, Which in two equal portions shall divide The distance from the centre to the side.
Fear not to slaver; 'tis no deadly sin : Like the free Frenchman, from your joyous chin Suspend the ready napkin; or, like me,
Poise with one hand your bowl upon your knee; Just in the zenith your wise head project, Your full spoon, rising in a line direct,
Bold as a bucket, heeds no drops that fall, The wide-mouth'd bowl will surely catch them all
"Twas then, one eve, when o'er the imperial lake And all its cities, glittering in their pomp, The lord of glory threw his parting smiles, In Tlatelolco's palace, in her bower,
Papantzin lay reclined; sister of him
At whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there To musings various, o'er her senses crept
Or sleep or kindred death.
In an illimitable plain, that stretched Its desert continuity around,
Upon the o'erwearied sight; in contrast strange With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt, Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it, As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth; Their summits freezing, where the eagle tired, But found no resting-place. Papantzin looked On endless barrenness, and walked perplexed Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath,
Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom Debarred from light and glory.
She came where a great sullen river poured Its turbid waters with a rushing sound Of painful moans; as if the inky waves
Were hastening still on their complaining course To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond
What seemed a highway ran, with branching paths Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew To shun with agile limbs the current's force, Nor feared the noise of waters.
She had played From infancy in her fair native lake,
Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round, Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues, As fearless and as innocent as they.
A vision stayed her purpose. By her side Stood a bright youth; and startling, as she gazed On his effulgence, every sense was bound In pleasing awe and in fond reverence. For not Tezcatlipoca, as he shone
Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven By filmy thread sustained he came to earth, In his resplendent mail reflecting all Its images, with dazzling portraiture, Was, in his radiance and immortal youth, A peer to this new god. His stature was
Like that of men; but matched with his, the port Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien Of suppliants at their feet. Serene the light That floated round him, as the lineaments It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet The impression of his features, which to scan Their lofty loveliness forbade his eyes She felt, but saw not: only, on his brow- From over which, encircled by what seemed
A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light Revolving ever, backward flowed his locks In buoyant, waving clusters-on his brow She marked a CROSS described; and lowly bent, She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign. From either shoulder mantled o'er his front Wings dropping feathery silver; and his robe Snow-white in the still air was motionless, As that of chiselled god, or the pale shroud Of some fear-conjured ghost.
And led her passive o'er the naked banks
Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily. But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more; His voice seemed sweeter than the hymnings raised By brave and gentle souls in Paradise,
To celebrate the outgoing of the sun
On his majestic progress over heaven.
"Stay, princess," thus he spoke, "thou mayst not yet O'erpass these waters. Though thou knowest it not, Nor Him, God loves thee." So he led her on, Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds; For now, o'er scattered sculls and grisly bones They walked; while underneath, before, behind, Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long, Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony, And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell Of hopeless and intolerable pain.
Shuddering, as, in the gloomy whirlwind's pause, Through the malign, distempered atmosphere, The second circle's purple blackness, passed The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades Of poor Francesca and her paramour; The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepped, Listening the frightful clamour; till a gleam, Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seemed Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up
The sable river. Then a pageant came Over its obscure tides, of stately barks, Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device, Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high, Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air. Grim bearded men, with stern and angry looks, Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore A broad sheet pendant, where, inwrought with gold, She marked the symbol that adorned the brow Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose The roar of voices from the accursed strand.
WAKING OF PAPANTZIN IN THE SEPULCHRE.
She woke in darkness and in solitude. Slow passed her lethargy away, and long To her half-dreaming eye that brilliant sign Distinct appeared. Then damp and close she felt The air around, and knew the poignant smell Of spicy herbs collected and confined.
As those awakening from some troubled trance Are wont, she would have learned by touch if yet The spirit to the body was allied.
Strange hindrances prevented. O'er her face. A mask thick-plated lay-and round her swathed Was many a costly and encumbering robe, Such as she wore on some high festival, O'erspread with precious gems, rayless and cold, That now pressed hard and sharp against her touch. The cumbrous collar round her slender neck, Of gold thick studded with each valued stone Earth and the sea-depths yield for human pride- The bracelets and the many-twisted rings That girt her taper limbs, coil upon coil— What were they in this dungeon's solitude?
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