Part 2 — THE ZOPILOTES.

———

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

———

[A Mexican soldier, being grievously wounded in one of the battles of Hidalgo, was deserted by his victorious companions. Unable to defend himself against the numerous Zopilotes, or vultures, which hovered around him, he put an end to his life with his own hand.]

I feel the motion of each heavy wing—

I hear the rustling of the air they cleave—

The shadows they, like sombre phantoms, fling

Closely around and o’er me, hovering,

Beget wild fears, which busy fancies weave

Into a dreadful certainty.

I hear the war-cry on the distant field!

I see the dust, by charging squadrons cart;

The cannon’s blaze, the flash of burnished steel;

Bright banner’s wave, the rapid march and wheel,

Where every step may be, perhaps, the last

A soldier e’er may take.

Closely, more closely, still I see them sweep,

Their wings are furled, and eagerly, they tread,

Yet silently, as one who walks in sleep,

Swiftly, as tyrant monsters of the deep

Rush on their helpless prey, which seems to dread

Far, far too much to fly.

Ye whom I loved, my brethren of the sword,

With whom I left my distant mountain-home,

Come, come to me. Alas! no single word

I speak will ever by your ears be heard,

Where battle cries, the trump and stirring drum,

Salute your victory.

Was it for this I left my mother’s side,

And bade to her I loved a last adieu,

The dark-eyed girl I won to be my bride?

Was it to watch this warm, empurpled tide

Of life come gurgling, like a fountain, through

My rent and gaping breast?

Wounded, alone, upon the field of strife,

The shouts of victory upon mine ear,

My comrades joyous, or bereft of life,

Martyrs, with fame and glory ever rife—

I do not dread to die alone e’en here,

As yon brave men have died.

But oh, great God! I would not feel the beak

Of yon dark vulture tear away my heart;

Not that I wish my failing strength to eke—

A soldier’s death it was my joy to seek,

Wounded, alone, I have no other art

To save me. Let me die.