AZTLAN.

Father of Waters! Nilus of the West!

Thou holdst thy secrets from the sons of men;

A knowledge of the past which none would wrest

Or wish to circumscribe with tongue or pen

To the weak bonds of history; but rather stand

With old De Soto on thy banks, and reverence the hand

That drew the fetters from thy limbs, and set thee first at birth,

On thy unmuzzled pilgrimage, without a peer on earth.

Better thy unbroke seal, if it would teach

The ponderous worm of destiny, called man;

How great things may be hidden from his reach,

And mighty things be silent, that his span

Is but a hand-breadth to the great unknown,

A thistle-down, before the breezes blown,

That silent and unseen God turns the mighty mill,

And on the brow of giant force he writes his words, “Be still.”

The possibles of time, are all thine own.

Thou hast not reared thy monuments of stone

To overtop the pyramids, yet wrought

In shapely mounds, thy sculpturehood, and caught

From flying Time, the lustre of his wing,

Which gives the semblance of perpetual Spring

To thy vast lap of luxuries; in thee

( Since man first pinioned thee to history )

Is found the acme of a world's desire.

Thy unknown crucial test, has passed the fire

Of many fading centuries; let none inquire

The secrets of thy conquest: be thou shut up with God,

The master molding of his hand — the jewel of his rod!

Yet in the book of Nature there is writ,

Without exception, all her energies,

As line by line, her page becomes enlit;

Yielding to man some new and glad surprise,

As Agassiz, together works with her,

To make the earth, her own interpreter;

And such a giant, must not hope to hide

The unfading Sanscrit, written on its side.

Thy brow wast glistered with the frost of years,

Ere man's first rapture, at the sight of thee;

Yet, were thy banks unswelled, by falling tears

Till he tore back thy splendid tapestry —

The bison and the deer unfrighted came

To lave upon thy borders, all were tame,

In their untoilsome frolics; and the beasts and birds

Made rolic at thy feet, in songs not marred with words.

But sorrow comes with knowledge;‘ tis the tree,

That bears the samest fruit in every zone —

The tale of Eden is no mystery,

The tree will verify wherever grown.

And yet, in God's own providence‘ tis best,

That Eden be repeated East and West;

If knowledge in the first, brought sorrowhood to earth,

The power to laugh and cry, were purchased at one birth.

They stand upon thy borders: Mighty Stream!

We will not pry thy silent lips apart,

To ask thee when, and how, the Prophet's dream

Reached its fulfillment; treasured in thy heart,

Let it remain as many other things

Are left; our language lessens their effect,

And makes them small in words,— the very springs

Of our existence, are not shown correct,

When crowded into verbage,— so we lay

Our beys upon thee, and we feel‘ tis thine;

Thine every secret, of the grand emprise,

With only one unlicensed hand, the Hand of the Divine.

It is enough that after waste and want

And weariness of spirit they have found

A rest upon thy margin, that thy arms

Are opened to enclose them, and the sound

Of human voices mingle with the notes

Of myriad waterfowl. The thousand throats

Of thy unmeasured pasture, blend in praise

To the All Father for the countless ways

That point his providence. The raven's cry

Strikes never vainly, thy omniscient ear,

No effort, but is answered “here am I,”

No prayer but finds the parent very near.

The unconscious hallelujahs of the plain,

The untaught praises of the lofty trees,

The waving upward palms of laden grain,

The mellow notes upon the evening breeze,

The “reveillies” from off the mountain tops,

The nightingale's “tattoo,” the many lips

Touched only once by God, the faithful drops

That wear unceasing at the granite mine,

The praise that never sinks to prayer, the finger tips

That span the universal zone of life; all, all incline

To adoration. If we lose our way

( As these poor souls had done ) we need but turn

To catch the choral of the passing day.

Behold on every branch and beam the altars burn!

And all things beckon us of God, if we but bend

The enquiring ear, and catch the keynote of the mighty song

That swells from all the universe; we too may blend

In the vast concord, happiest of the throng.

The rhythmal of the angels, is not far

From the first prattle of the infant's tongue

Both caught the glitter of the Eastern star;

The harps were both, by the same Master strung;

The glory of the one, glows from the face;

The other lifts, to meet its parent's kiss.

Not very far, the border land of bliss,

From every infant of the human race.

The sacred fane of childhood, when first reared,

How like a prophecy it should be read —

A thing to be adored, and sometimes feared!

So many unseen hands, smooth down the bed

Of infancy; we can but jostle with our utmost care

Against angelic presences that bend

And print their unseen kisses on the brow,

And with the infant earth, the Heavenly essence blend.

The wheel that never tires, and ever turns,

Crushing the neck of nations in its round,

Before whose tread, the star of empire burns,

Behind whose trend, the ridged and furrowed ground

Gives mute quiescence, to the Master hand;

This wheel rolls on; and now upon thy banks

Great River of the West the infant's cry

Is mingled with the forest din; thy ranks

Are opened to admit the “lullaby”

Of earth's last entity; thou did'st not groan

When buffalo and beaver found thy side,

Nor when thy trees, first echoed to the moan

Of the despondent turtle, to his bride;

And thou did'st smile on this invading race,

And open thy broad prairies, as the palm

Of some great hearted giant, to embrace

The sea-tossed wanderers, the healing balm

Of thy great heaving breast, rubbed almost out

The wrinkles from the faces of these sires

Of early Egypt; they forgot the drought

And mildew of their wanderings, and the fires

Of their thanksgiving altars, gave a zest

They never yet had felt; an empire spread

Around them, in the flush of its full growth

A bride, inviting the espousal bed.

Their ranks had been depleted; yet a few

Still lingered with the Prophet, who had stood

At the first altar; when the fervent sun

First answered their entreaty, and the blood

Was lapped by solar flame; and now, that peace

Enshrines their hearts, and plenty spreads their board,

They warm towards their leader, and return

To their old-fashioned loyalty; his word

Is sacred as the smiling of the sun

Whose burnished mirror likenesses their forms,

And in whose bosom after life is done,

The weary find a shelter from all storms.

Nor do they want a psalmist for his praise,

But he is found with ready harp and voice,

To turn the multitude, with rapturous gaze,

Upon the god of their unshaken choice.

Their morning song is mingled with the mirth,

That rolics from the sycamore and oak,

The song that swells the green and fruent earth,

That needs no trumpet's blare, nor kettle stroke.