THE AZTECS — AZTLAN.

The silver current of the upper Grande,

And where the Gila penetrates the East,

The Zuni lines its rocky bed with sand,

New ground from granite that has been released

From mountain base. The vertebrate Madre

Breaks into several center-stays of spine,

Which form the watershed that feeds the sea,

On either side the sunny slopes recline.

Where Coronado laid in after years

The scepter of his Sovereign, and bespoke

The unbroke silence, as the cycle nears

The bending of the neck to Hispagniola's yoke.

Here was the fabled Aztlan; and the race,

Whose ancestry had circled half the globe,

Have now their latest destiny to face.

O! could they peer the darkness through, and probe

The deep recesses of impending time!

Look for one moment on what was to be!

How would they cling to this rude mountain clime,

And bar the door of their futurity!

The Aztecs were a proud and prowent race;

In the dispersal at the far Northeast,

Now many years, they held the leading place;

Yet, in their husbandry, they were the least.

Their hands were skilled to turbulence and strife;

The bow, the lance, and the rude hunter's knife —

Such were their ready implements; but peace

Found them all unacquainted; her surcease

Requires a range of weaponry diverse.

The hands that hew down others, lips that curse,

Both must be newly christened; and the arts

That unify the race with nature's ways

Must hard their hands and reimburse their hearts,

And time their lips with sunnier kinds of lays.

As if to fill the interim, there grew

From their own ranks, the fittest kind of guide,

A pastoral leader; who by instinct knew

The flowery paths that lead on either side

The verdant fields of husbandry and thrift;

The worthy Moctheuzoma had this gift,

And led them to the conquest of the soil —

That easy conquering that seeks its spoil

Only where God intended it for man,

The fruits of his own labor. Thus began

An era of self-discipline, that led

The Aztecs on to greatness; and that shed

A tender halo over after years,

When memory will mingle with our tears.

He turned their eyes upon the talcite ledge,

And said: “Behold, this is Tonatuah's pledge

Of providence against the Summer's heat

And the cold frosts of Winter; quarry it,

And fashion it for framework to your homes.

For centuries it has withstood the storm,

“To wait upon your coming; let your feet

Be busy with its treasures.” Then he turned

To where the clay, for years, had been inurned,

And said: “Make use of this;‘ tis Thaloc's gift.

The mighty thunderer hath torn it down,

And ground it into ashes, for your use;

Mold it in shapely fragments, and the sun,

The warm-faced Tonatuah, will pour out

His warmest rays to bake it back to stone.

And more, this pliant clay has aptitudes

For vessels of all kinds, and yours are rude;

So in a hundred ways you may improve.”

Then, pointing to the forest, thus he spoke:

“There Tonatu’ and Thaloc both did shake

Their well-filled branches to the earth for us,

That we might gather fruit, for any taste.

These noble trees have swelled the turf for years,

And now will bend the neck for our support.

We must be provident; for they do point

Their myriad fingers to the hands that gave,

Mute monitors, to beckon us of Heaven.

“The fish and fowl, and all the vast menage

That track our mountain slopes, are all our own.

But look out on the earth, whose grassy turf

Lifts up its thousand homages to Heaven;

“Whence must we gather fruit of our own toil.

The maize will grow if planted; the legume

Will ripen; and our hands will surely fill,

If we but ask the earth and gods to help

And second our endeavors. We must work.

The river, from the mountain, rushes on;

The mountain shakes its thousand plumes at her;

The stars do not keep quiet in the skies;

All nature is alert and on the watch;

And man must bear his burden at the mill.”

Thus, did he lead them to their better selves,

And ravel out the intricates of life

In wisdom's stern and simple litany;

Gave trenchent lessons to the man and wife,

And scattered homes upon new harvest fields.

And he, who sets a household altar up,

And sanctifies it with the name of home,

Fresh sprinkled from the sacred nuptial cup,

Is Heaven's Ambassador in human form.

The hearthstone is the herald of advance;

The hanging of each homely crane, like one

Of God's unnumbered irridescent plants,

Sheds rainbow hues on all it shines upon,

And blessings bend each limb upon its tree.

Thrice happy is the nation thus begun,

For it has found the track of destiny.

The mines he opened, and laid bare the beds

Of precious minerals that underlie

The bases of our mountain chains.

“For all our wants, we have a full supply,”

Thus spake the seer. “We shall not beat in vain

Against the bars that keep our souls from flight.

Our birth is built around by providence;

Our wants are wickets to unmeasured wealth.

If we but find the turnstile to the field,

We have but half the hill of life to climb;

The other half fades out as we advance;

When we have toiled out half-way distance up,

Lo! we have found the summit, and descend.

“Thus do we work together with the gods;

If we but do our best, it is enough;

When we put out our arms, they reach to us,

Though they do span the universe, to meet

And draw us up, the shining heights of life.

So in our daily plodding; if we sow,

The gods will furnish harvest; if we build,

The gods have made the quarry and the clay;

Whatever purposes we have in life,

If they be only for our betterment,

The crude material is at our hands;

We only fashion it to suit our wants;

Nor is the measure stinted to our needs,

But all our vessels fill to overflow

“Look over the green fields! Great is our want,

But greater the supply; on every hand

The wild flowers lift their heads, and what are these

But kisses thrown from Heaven to win us back?

Our appetites are but our weaker parts,

And easy satisfied; not so our souls;

They have external longings to supply;

And all that beautifies and brightens earth

Are forecasts of a kingdom yet to come.

As on earth's surface may be found the flowers,

So, underneath the shining metals are

The surplus of a generous providence.

Our fathers, on the borders of the lakes,

Did fashion implements of husbandry

From inexhaustive mines; but here we have

In lesser quantities, much brighter ores,

Fit mostly for adornment and exchange.

“Man is not satisfied with‘ hand to mouth.’

The beasts roam through the forests and are filled,

And therewith are content; not so with man.

Two worlds break on his vision; and the one

Must interlock the other in his life,

Or he goes blindly out into the night.

And it is well earth gives no perfect rest,

Or the hereafter would fall out of sight.

Man is the one ambitious animal

Who seeks for empire, as the brute seeks food;

The tame necessities are not enough,

But all the precious under flowers of earth

Must fill the measure of his discontent.

All men are not alike, and some must hold

The fullest measure of life's luxuries;

These pay their surplus for the others’ toil;

With them the shining metals will be held

As medium for barter and for trade.

And as Earth decks her bosom with the flowers,

So will the human race adorn themselves

And blossom out with variance of gems.”

Though, still encumbered with their ancient myths,

He pointed out the harmony of Heaven;

Gave why and wherefore to the dread eclipse.

Not his to tell them how the earth is driven

Upon its swinging orbit over space;

And yet he measured out the perfect year;

He looked stern Nature bravely in the face,

And seemed to question her without a fear.

Transcendent genius; thus to grapple Truth

Across the path still covered from his sight,

Yet is she merciful; her name is Ruth;

She never perches on so grand a height,

But she will answer to her children's call,

And spread her wings to fly to their embrace —

This link was never broken by our fall,

And writes Evangel on our troubled race.

With his own hand he led them to the field,

With his own hand he taught them how to build;

He showed them what true husbandry would yield,

How all their empty measures could be filled

By wakeful industry. “Well pointed toil

Is touchstone to earth's treasure-box,” said he.

“Our fathers may enrich us with their spoil,

And we may thus evade the beaten path;

Yet, lying dormant on our fathers’ beds,

Our waste brings want upon our children's heads.

Far better that each hand be labor-marked,

That all may know the purchase of their lives;

He loses half the journey who goes out

To the incertitudes of other worlds,

Who has not tasted what his hands have won

On this, his trial sphere.”

Thus in well-chosen words, and earnest deeds,

He planted fruit that crowded out the weeds.

Ruled by divinest right of master-mind,

By wisdom and humility combined,

By heart, as well as head and hand, he wrought;

For there be many who can ne'er be taught

By any else than throbbing‘ gainst their own,

Of some great royal heart; this is their throne;

And he who sways in scepterhood of love,

Gets his vicegerent from the throne above.

Through many years did Moctheuzoma reign;

And Aztlan prospered, and the race grew strong;

And when his body passed to earth again,

His spirit, with its wisdom, lingered long.

Thus, with a twilight halo pass the great

Across the threshold with a noiseless tread;

We linger but a moment at the gate

To pay our homage to the honored dead;

Then turn to find them still inurned with us.

Their silence is more eloquent than words,

Their passing out is but life's overplus,

Their tongues are tempered into two-edged swords.

They speak across the chasm of their graves,

In weightier words, in thoughts far more intense;

In life they mingled with its thousand waves —

It is God's way; death ripens eloquence.

Time trolls along with its unceasing march,

And Aztlan has outgrown her former bounds;

She holds the center of the ancient arch,

On the historic ladder's highest rounds.

She sways the queenly scepter of the past

Above the waymarks of a hundred realms;

Yet leaves but hints of the grand overcast,

Through which she burns her way, and overwhelms

Our thoughts with all the possibles of time.

We can but poorly comprehend, yet write her most sublime.