Some say
the Pater Noster, and some an Ave utter,
Some Angelus Domini in hurried accents mutter;
While others join the chant and devoutly bend the knee,
Like true Christian cavaliers, Almighty God! to Thee.

The dark, sun-bronzed Tabascans, illumined in the faith
That points to bliss eternal beyond the shades of death,
Who have nobly dangers braved, and have no coward fears,
Stand, a spectacle to move the heart, with eyes suffused in tears.

Hark! now the clarion peals, and deeply rolls the drum,
And see, in glittering splendor, away the Spaniards come;
They still bear their incensed palms as they had done before,
And as they to the temple marched, so march they to the shore.

Freshly blow the tropic winds, and on a surging tide
Once more the Spanish caravels the rolling billows ride:
Hurrah! hurrah! they bravely leave Tabasco's burning strand;
Hurrah! hurrah! for Mexico, the glorious golden land!

The Dream of Montezuma.

THE Emperor Montezuma retires to his bower in the garden when he hears of the massacre of Cholula, and the determination of the Spaniards to visit him in his own city, and broods over his inevitable destiny. He falls asleep, and Quetzalcoatl appears to him in a dream, the benevolent deity who had long abandoned the country, and of whom it is said, "When he reached the shore of the Mexican Gulf, he took leave of his followers, promising that he and his descendants would revisit them hereafter; and then entering his wizard skiff, inade of serpents' skins, embarked on the great ocean for the fabled land of Tlapallan." Tradition and mythology say that "under him the earth teemed with fruits and flowers," and that "the air was filled with intoxicating perfumes, and the sweet melody of birds." The awful predictions of the vision, and the dismal apprehensions of Montezuma.

N the vale of Anahuac, like glory's golden crown,

I sun

Behind the porphyry mountains the sun is going down; While the Aztec Montezuma to his garden bower repairs, But his eyes are downward cast, and a troubled look he wears.

On his feet are burnished sandals, on his head a plume of green, And his feathered tilmatli is gemmed with stones of sparkling sheen.

Cascades are leaping by his path, and woodland minstrels sing, While shrubs and brilliant flowers around delightful odors fling.

What to him are battle trophies and bannered palace walls, Where feast his nobles and his priests in palm-leaf matted halls? What to him his jewelled crown and the pageantry of state, When his mighty heart is crushed, and he bends beneath the weight?

Pavilioned in his fragrant bower, he seeks a brief repose
From his court-harassing cares and the fear of coming woes;
The passing zephyrs gently fan the swarthy monarch's brow,
And dreams of dark forebodings disturb his slumber now.

A vision stands before him with a lofty, god-like air,
And a dark and flowing beard such as mortals never wear;
He seems like some good aged seer whose race is nearly run:
Oh! comes he from Tlapallan or the region of the Sun?

"Submission to the laws of Fate a monarch well beseems;
I am the long-departed god who haunts you in your dreams;
I come my mountain land to claim, far from an eastern shore,
To scatter blessings o'er the realm, as in the days of yore.

"What though the sanguine Tlaloc showered no reviving rain,
I ever plenty sent to all throughout this wide domain;
In Anahuac's halcyon days no desert spots were seen,
And clothed were hills, that now are bare, in rich perennial green.

"The air was filled with sweet perfumes, birds ever joyous sang;
With music wild and ravishing the rocks and Valley rang.
Now, a mildew blights the flowers, and a gloom pervades the land,
O'er which I waved in glory enchantment's golden wand.

"You tremble, Montezuma! Why starts the coward tear?
Be worthy of your princely race: the brave ne'er shake with fear.
Your very days are numbered now; from Fate you cannot fly;
And, as an Aztec you have lived, so like an Aztec die.

"The pale mysterious strangers in pomp and triumph come,
And yet, unhappy monarch, your oracles are dumb;
They climb the steep sierra, they march o'er wastes of snow,
And fierce Tlascalans swell their ranks, your most abhorrent foc.

"Showers of arrows harmless fall, and Caciques in anger frown, Yet the temples they despoil and the idols tumble down; Lighinings flash and thunders roar in their victorious path; They surely are the ministers of Heaven's avenging wrath.

66

Impervious is the armor of the Children of the Sun,

Who bring a purer faith than yours, and have no gods but one; They speak of men's redemption and universal love,

And tell of glorious mansions in a happy world above.

66

'They soon shall reach your city gates, soon all your treasures

claim,

For to those bold invaders no terror has your name:

You cannot stay their onward course, so for the worst prepare; Where your tasselled thongs are hanging, you soon shall fetters

wear.

"All your gods shall quickly vanish, and never more return,
And palace and teocalli in flames terrific burn;

Ascending smoke shall blacken yon blue and cloudless sky,
And your boasted Tenochtitlan in wide-spread ashes lie.

"The waters of Tezcuco shall be crimsoned with the blood Of valiant Aztec soldiers, who the brunt of wars have stood;

Your subjects that are spared, with a sad and broken heart,
Shall from fair Anahuac in wretchedness depart.

"In vain you trust your bloody priests, and on your gods rely, Whose altars smoke with hecatombs that loud for vengeance cry: The tribes who loathe your very name, yet fear your dreadful

sway,

Shall with a hellish laugh behold your empire pass away."

As gathering mists the mountain hide, the phantom disappears; The sweat falls from the monarch's brow, whose eyes are dim with tears;

He

weeps, whose royal will is law, who never brooked control; The vision and his dismal dream sink deep into his soul.