Page:Face to Face With the Mexicans.djvu/402

396 The Spaniard holds his lands! Upon His fields, his flocks, his hold is tight! But, oh, this glorious golden dawn, The golden doors that close at night. His gold-hued babes, her russet breast Are his! The world may have the rest.

Mexico City, April.

It was my good fortune to meet Mr. Miller at the Mexican capital and hear him recite the above poem before it had taken form on paper. Being in deep sympathy with the subject of this chapter, he kindly presented me with an autograph copy to insert in my book. Its tender pathos and quaint versification cannot fail to be admired, and are worthy the genius and wide fame of this gifted "Poet of the Sierras."

Whether seen beneath the brilliant white sunshine of a cloudless day on his native plains, or under the mellow effulgence of the peerless Queen of Night in the valley, consecrated by the shrines of his forefathers, the "Silent Aztec Child of the Sun" presents a picture unique in the history of the world. He is the primitive man, unmoved by the march of civilization around him, but in every lineament and movement, reflects the griefs and struggles of past centuries. He lives surrounded by the traces of those mysterious races which preceded him. All speak of the mutations of the world—the subjugation of mighty powers—and he has accepted the inevitable with a sad and unresisting stoicism.

He is ever picturesque. In his mountain home engaged in pastoral pursuits, in holiday attire on his patron saint's day, or in rags under the electric lights of a great city, the traditions of the past hang over him, investing him with the interest attaching to the pathetic last man.

To-day men and women may be found with accredited documents proving their descent from Montezuma and the princes of Tezcuco, but owing to inertia their claims are unasserted.

The conquest and Spanish domination wrought a metamorphosis