Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXII No. 4, April 1848

Lose all the wing for flight,
And, brooding deafly o'er the prey they tear,
Hear never the low voice that cries, "depart,
Lest with your surfeit you partake the snare!"
Thus fixed by brooding and rapacious thought,
Stood the dark chieftain by the gloomy stream,
When, suddenly, his ear
A far off murmur caught,
Low, deep, impending, as of trooping winds,
Up from his father's grave,
That ever still some fearful echoes gave,
Such as had lately warned him in his dream,
Of all that he had lost – of all he still might save!
Well knew he of the sacrilege that made
That sacred vault, where thrice two hundred kings
Were in their royal pomp and purple laid,
Refuge for meanest things; —
Well knew he of the horrid midnight rite,
And the foul orgies, and the treacherous spell,
By those dread magians nightly practiced there;
And who the destined victim of their art; —
But, as he feels the sacred amulet
That clips his neck and trembles at his breast —
As once did she who gave it – he hath set
His resolute spirit to its work, and well
His great soul answers to the threatning dread,
Those voices from the mansions of the dead!
Upon the earth, like stone,
He crouched in silence; and his keen ear, prone,
Kissed the cold ground in watchfulness, not fear!
But soon he rose in fright,
For, as the sounds grew near,
He feels the accents never were of earth:
They have a wilder birth
Than in the council of his enemies,
And he, the man, who, having but one life,
Hath risked a thousand in unequal strife,
Now, in the night and silence, sudden finds
A terror, at whose touch his manhood flies.
The blood grows cold and freezes in his veins,
His heart sinks, and upon his lips the breath
Curdles, as if in death!
Vainly he strives in flight,
His trembling knees deny – his strength is gone!
As one who, in the depth of the dark night,
Groping through chambered ruins, lays his hands
On cold and clammy bones, and glutinous brains,
The murdered man's remains —
Thus rooted to the dread spot stood the chief,
When, from the tomb of ages, came the sound,
As of a strong man's grief;
His heart denied its blood – his brain spun round —
He sank upon the ground!

'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung;
The murmurs grew about him like a cloud —
He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices,
Most sighing sad, but with a sound between,
As of one born to hope that still rejoices,
In a sweet foreign tongue,
That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud,
To a new rapture for the first time seen!
This better voice, as with a crowning spell,
On the chief's spirit fell;
Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud:
"Ah! thou art there, and well!
I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me
Art life no longer – thou hast brought me life,
Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife.
But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine,
And I will wait until the terrible hour
Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine!
Now am I sworn unto a wilder power,
But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower,
That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower
And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race
Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace; —
Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep,
And know not to resign —
I would, but cannot weep!
These are not tears, my father, but hot blood
That fills the warrior's eyes;
For every drop that falls, a mighty flood
Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn
Begins of that last day
Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray,
Such as shall bring us back old victories,
Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn.
Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom,
Where all may read the doom,
But none shall dream the horrid history!
I do not weep – I do not shrink – I cry
For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee,
No other thought I see!
My hope is strong within, my limbs are free.
My arms would strike the foe – my feet would fly,
Where now he rides triumphant in his sway —
And though within my soul a sorrow deep
Makes thought a horror haunting memory,
I do not, will not weep!"