Classic Poem

SCENE . The Temple of Mexitli .

Subjects ! friends! children! I may call you children,
For I have ever borne a father's love
Towards you; it is thirteen years since first
You saw me in the robes of royalty, —
Since here the multitudes of Mexico
Hail'd me their King. I thank you, friends, that now,
In equal numbers and with equal love,
You come to grace my death.
For thirteen years
What I have been, ye know; that with all care,
That with all justness and all gentleness,
Seeking your weal, I govern'd. Is there one
Whom I have injured? one whose just redress
I have denied, or baffled by delay?
Let him come forth, that so no evil tongue
Speak shame of me hereafter. O my people,
Not by my sins have I drawn down upon me
The wrath of Heaven.
The wrath is heavy on me!
Heavy! a burden more than I can bear!
I have endured contempt, insult, and wrongs
From that Acolhuan tyrant. Should I seek
Revenge? Alas, my people, we are few, —
Feeble our growing state; it hath not yet
Rooted itself to bear the hurricane;
It is the lion-cub that tempts not yet
The tiger's full-aged fury. Mexicans,
He sent to bid me wear a woman's robe, —
When was the day that ever I look'd back
In battle? Mexicans, the wife I loved,
To faith and friendship trusted, in despite
Of me, of Heaven, he seized, and spurn'd her back
Polluted! — Coward villain! and he lurks
Behind his armies and his multitudes,
And mocks my idle wrath! — It is not fit —
It is not possible that I should live! —
Live! and deserve to be the finger-mark
Of slave-contempt! — His blood I cannot reach,
But in my own all stains may be effaced;
It shall blot out the marks of infamy,
And when the warriors of the days to come
Tell of Ximalpoca, it shall be said
He died the brave man's death!
Not of the God
Unworthy, do I seek his altar thus,
A voluntary victim. And perchance
The sacrifice of life may profit ye,
My people, though all living efforts fail'd
By fortune, not by fault.
Cease your lament!
And if your ill-doom'd King deserved your love,
Say of him to your children, he was one
Who bravely bore misfortune; who, when life
Became dishonor, shook his body off,
And join'd the spirits of the heroes dead.
Yes! not in Miclanteuctli's dark abode
With cowards shall your King receive his doom:
Not in the icy caverns of the North
Suffer through endless ages. He shall join
The Spirits of the brave, with them at morn
Shall issue from the eastern gate of Heaven,
And follow through his fields of light the Sun;
With them shall raise the song and weave the dance;
Sport in the stream of splendor; company
Down to the western palace of his rest
The Prince of Glory; and with equal eye
Endure his centred radiance. Not of you
Forgetful, O my people, even then;
But often in the amber cloud of noon
Diffused, will I o'erspread your summer fields,
And on the freshen'd maize and brightening meads
Shower plenty.
Spirits of my valiant Sires,
I come! Mexitli, never at thy shrine
Flow'd braver blood; never a nobler heart
Steam'd up to thee its life! Priests of the God,
Perform your office!