Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies,
Birds of gay song and plume,
Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks,
Trees, of eternal bloom,
Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pure
As infant's rosy mouth,
Rare, tempting fruits—all—all are thine,
Sweet City of the South.
Around thee lime and citron bowers
In peaceful beauty rest,
While orange groves stretch far away
To blue Tezcuco's breast;
Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand,
Cordillera's mountain line,
And lift along thine azure sky
Their silver crests sublime.
Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen,
And thou hadst wealth and power;
But wealth and beauty proved to thee
"A darkly glorious dower."
Iberia on her rocky heights
Beheld thee from afar,
And rolled o'er all thy subject clime
The lurid tide of war.
On thee the mighty torrent burst,
And with resistless sway
Bore from thy desperate, struggling sons
Their gods, their kings away.
Then followed weary, weary years,
Such as the conquered know,
When brave hearts bleed and faint ones break
Beneath their weight of wo.
Iberia's brood with iron sway
Kept down thy fallen ones,
And bonds and stripes were freely doled
To thy degraded sons;
Then spear and lance were left to rust
Along thy bannered walls,
Thine eagle drooped and strangers dwelt
In "Montezuma's halls."
Oppression's long dark night of pain
At length wore slowly on,
And, radiant 'mid receding gloom,
Hope heralded the dawn.
Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sun
Uprose o'er thine and thee,
While thy clear bells with silvery chime
Proclaimed a country FREE.
And mingling with their heavenly tones
Glad triumphs swelled the breeze,
For that bright sun dispelled the gloom
Of rolling centuries.
A flood of golden light streamed down
O'er valley mount and plain,
Thy joyous eagle plumed his wing
And soared aloft again.
Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored,
The joy of other years,
And gentler woman's truthful heart
Wept silent grateful tears;
And thou—bathed in thy new-born light—
Thou ancient island-gem,
Ah! to thy proud fond children's hearts
Thou wert an Eden then.
But thy stern oracles the while
Spoke ever deep and slow—
"Dark hours are yet reserved for thee,
Ill-fated Mexico!"
And after years proved all too soon,
Proved to thy bitter pain,
Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood,
Had flowed, and flowed in vain.
How hast thou mourned the civil broils
That shook thy peaceful homes?
How hast thou mourned the broken faith
Of thy degenerate sons?
The faith thrice broken that incurred
Columbia's vengeful sword,
Till red o'er many a battle-plain
Thy blood like water poured.