He dropp’d, like a falling star shot through the

Shoreless space; like a golden morning reach’d

The earth,—reach’d the lake. Then stay’d the Nation’s

March. Still Sunward rose the cry, but Southward

Strode the king no more.

In his roomy heart, in

The chambers of its love, Quetzal’ took the

Nation. He swore its kings should be his sons,—

They should conquer, by the Sun, he swore! In

The laughing Lake he bade them build; and up