THE CITY OF MEXICO.

Pride of the South, thy glittering spires Point to the arching sky, While tower and palace proudly rear Their stately forms on high; Thy spacious squares spread far and wide Along the valley green, And bright above thy hundred fanes An hundred crosses gleam. Bland, spring-like breezes, brilliant skies, Birds of gay song and plume, Cool sparkling founts, wide shaded walks, Trees, of eternal bloom, Bright glowing flowers, as fresh and pure As infant's rosy mouth, Rare, tempting fruits—all—all are thine, Sweet City of the South. Around thee lime and citron bowers In peaceful beauty rest, While orange groves stretch far away To blue Tezcuco's breast; Beyond thee giant bulwarks stand, Cordillera's mountain line, And lift along thine azure sky Their silver crests sublime. Ah! thou hast beauty, Southern Queen, And thou hadst wealth and power; But wealth and beauty proved to thee "A darkly glorious dower." Iberia on her rocky heights Beheld thee from afar, And rolled o'er all thy subject clime The lurid tide of war. On thee the mighty torrent burst, And with resistless sway Bore from thy desperate, struggling sons Their gods, their kings away. Then followed weary, weary years, Such as the conquered know, When brave hearts bleed and faint ones break Beneath their weight of wo. Iberia's brood with iron sway Kept down thy fallen ones, And bonds and stripes were freely doled To thy degraded sons; Then spear and lance were left to rust Along thy bannered walls, Thine eagle drooped and strangers dwelt In "Montezuma's halls." Oppression's long dark night of pain At length wore slowly on, And, radiant 'mid receding gloom, Hope heralded the dawn. Day broke, and Freedom's glorious sun Uprose o'er thine and thee, While thy clear bells with silvery chime Proclaimed a country FREE. And mingling with their heavenly tones Glad triumphs swelled the breeze, For that bright sun dispelled the gloom Of rolling centuries. A flood of golden light streamed down O'er valley mount and plain, Thy joyous eagle plumed his wing And soared aloft again. Thy sons rejoiced o'er rights restored, The joy of other years, And gentler woman's truthful heart Wept silent grateful tears; And thou—bathed in thy new-born light— Thou ancient island-gem, Ah! to thy proud fond children's hearts Thou wert an Eden then. But thy stern oracles the while Spoke ever deep and slow— "Dark hours are yet reserved for thee, Ill-fated Mexico!" And after years proved all too soon, Proved to thy bitter pain, Thy soil's vast wealth, thy sons' best blood, Had flowed, and flowed in vain. How hast thou mourned the civil broils That shook thy peaceful homes? How hast thou mourned the broken faith Of thy degenerate sons? The faith thrice broken that incurred Columbia's vengeful sword, Till red o'er many a battle-plain Thy blood like water poured. Again the stranger's echoing tread Sounds from thy ancient halls— Again the flag of other lands Waves o'er thy captured walls. Thy peerless beauty, storied lore, Thy buried heroes' fame, Wealth, power—ah, what are they to thee With thy dishonored name! The foe that first beheld thy towers Beyond the lake's green shore, And they who fondly reared thee up, The lordly ones of yore— They did not dream a change like this Could on thy pride be hurled, Who erst amid thy mountains reigned Queen of the new-found world.