Ah, 'twas no song of love or high exploit,
No music of guitars that waited him
To sound a welcome in the Aztec Spain!
Long on the air,
What is that wail which from Salvor's sad Point
Sounds midst the raucous sobbing of the flood?
Do dead Venetians sing, or else the old,
Old Istrian Fates?
—"Ah, Son of Hapsburg, in an ill-starred hour
You mount, upon our seas, the fated ship![1]
Darkly the Furies, by you, to the wind
Shake out the sails.
See how the sphinx perfidiously gives back
As you advance, and puts on other forms!
It is mad Joan's livid look that fronts
That of your wife;
It is the severed head of France's Queen[2]
Grinning at you; and with deep-sunken eyes
Fastened on yours, 'tis Montezuma's fierce
Yellow-hued face.
- ↑ The "Novara."
- ↑ Marie Antoinette.
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