'Twas but an instant to the dust he clung; The murmurs grew about him like a cloud-- He breathed an atmosphere of spirit-voices, Most sighing sad, but with a sound between, As of one born to hope that still rejoices, In a sweet foreign tongue, That seemed exulting, starting from its shroud, To a new rapture for the first time seen! This better voice, as with a crowning spell, On the chief's spirit fell; Up starting from the earth, he cried aloud: "Ah! thou art there, and well! I thank thee, thou sweet life, that unto me Art life no longer--thou hast brought me life, Such as shall make thy murderers dread the strife. But for thy ear a gentler speech be mine, And I will wait until the terrible hour Hath past, and I may wholly then be thine! Now am I sworn unto a wilder power, But none so clear, or precious, sweetest flower, That ever, when Palenque possessed her tower And white-robed priesthood, wert of all thy race Most queenly, and the soul of truth and grace;-- Blossom of beauty, that I could not keep, And know not to resign-- I would, but cannot weep! These are not tears, my father, but hot blood That fills the warrior's eyes; For every drop that falls, a mighty flood Our foemen's hearts shall yield us, when the dawn Begins of that last day Whose red light ushers in the fatal fray, Such as shall bring us back old victories, Or of the empire, evermore withdrawn. Shall make a realm of silence and of gloom, Where all may read the doom, But none shall dream the horrid history! I do not weep--I do not shrink--I cry For the fierce strife and vengeance! Taught by thee, No other thought I see! My hope is strong within, my limbs are free. My arms would strike the foe--my feet would fly, Where now he rides triumphant in his sway-- And though within my soul a sorrow deep Makes thought a horror haunting memory, I do not, will not weep!"