| |
(From Ruins of Many Lands)
WHERE spreads Cholula’s plain, beneath the eye | |
| Of Nature’s giants towering to the sky, | |
| In mouldering pride, in solemn ruin, stands | |
| That lordly pile, the “Mountain made by hands.” | |
| No Attic grace, no Asian pomp, are here; | 5 |
| ’T is simply grand, and savagely severe: | |
| Pacing along its base, or climbing slow | |
| Its terraced sides, to scan the scene below, | |
| We feel that Babel’s tower could scarce surpass, | |
| In rude wild majesty, this wondrous mass; | 10 |
| That far Chaldæa’s sons, or Egypt’s kings, | |
| Sent their bold genius here on spirit wings; | |
| For strange, between each nation, seems the tie | |
| Of kindred creeds, of arts, and modes gone by; | |
| Each worshipped day’s bright god, and watched afar | 15 |
| From lofty pyramids the midnight star; | |
| Each with ambition burned vast tombs to raise, | |
| Whose secret vaults should stand for endless days; | |
| Yes, deep within this mount the Toltec laid | |
| The bones of monarchs, now to dust decayed: | 20 |
| Primeval race! their story who shall show? | |
| They built, they reigned, they died—is all we know. | |
| |
| Thrice holy temple! immemorial tomb! | |
| Linked with strange fables, and with tales of gloom; | |
| High on its summit stood the sacred cell, | 25 |
| Where, screened from sight, the god was wont to dwell: | |
| Here the stoled priest invoked the powers of air, | |
| His offering burned, and breathed a nation’s prayer: | |
| Here, while a paler beam each planet shed, | |
| Mid shouts and music, human victims bled. | 30 |
| The sacred fire—that mystic symbol brought | |
| Perchance from Persia’s hills, by magi taught— | |
| Here blazed forever, save that fearful night, | |
| Each rolling age, when priesthood quenched its light, | |
| And trembling thousands, with the vanished ray, | 35 |
| Deemed life would fail, and earth would pass away. | |
| |
| Man, ages, creeds, have melted from those plains; | |
| Now o’er the giant structure quiet reigns. | |
| Spring decks its mouldering sides with many a flower, | |
| That courts the bee at morning’s dewy hour. | 40 |
| Where frowned the Toltec’s god, the Virgin now | |
| Sheds her meek smile, and Christian votaries bow; | |
| While, sadly sweet, the circling yew-trees wave, | |
| And crosses deck the ancient Pagan’s grave. | |
| “Ave Maria!” evening’s balmy breeze | 45 |
| Wafts the soft prayer, like music, through the trees; | |
| Mid golden clouds, his curtained couch of sleep, | |
| The sun o’erhangs the vast Pacific deep, | |
| Gilds the far isles that tropic glories bear, | |
| And charms to rest each storm-fiend brooding there. | 50 |
| “Ave Maria!” mountain, plain, and shore | |
| Hear the loud gong, the crowd’s mad shout no more; | |
| Soft as an angel’s sigh, the bell’s low sound | |
| Steals from yon tower, and floats in whispers round. | |
| Day smiles in death, and throws a crimson streak, | 55 |
| Like Beauty’s blush, along each snowy peak; | |
| E’en Orizaba’s fires ascend on high, | |
| The lurid flames turned roses in the sky. | |
| Mild are the rites, and gentle is the creed, | |
| Thus doomed red Moloch’s worship to succeed; | 60 |
| Eve’s purple charm, the music of the hour, | |
| Pour on the soul their soft dissolving power, | |
| Melt the full heart, and waft the thoughts above, | |
| On wings of warm devotion, hope, and love. | |
| |
