Page:The Conquest of Mexico Volume 2.djvu/417

 When fate the sceptre of command Shall wrench from out thy royal hand,— Thy moon diminished rise; And, as thy pride and strength are quench'd, From thy adherents shall be wrench'd All that they love or prize.

When sorrows shall my truth attest, And this thy throne decline,— The birds of thy ancestral nest, The princes of thy line,— The mighty of thy race,—shall see The bitter ills of poverty:— And then shall memory recall Thy envied greatness, and on all Thy brilliant triumphs dwell; And as they think on by-gone years. Compared with present shame, their tears Shall to an ocean swell.

And those, who, though a royal band, Serve thee for crown, or plume, Remote from Culhuacan's land Shall find the exile's doom. Deprived of thee,—their rank forgot,— Misfortune shall o'erwhelm their lot. Then fame shall grudgingly withhold Her meed to greatness, which of old Blazons and crowns display'd; The people will retain alone Remembrance of that triple throne Which this our land obey'd.

Brave Montezuma's Indian band Was Mexico the great. And Nezahualcoyotl's hand Bless'd Culhuacan's state. Whilst Totoquil his portion drew In Acatlapan, strong and true; But no oblivion can I fear. Of good by thee accomplish'd here. Whilst high upon thy throne; That station, which, to match thy worth, Was given by the Lord of Earth, Maker of good alone!