"Where look the loftiest Cordilleras down
From summits hoary with eternal snow
On Montezuma's venerable town
And storied vale, and Lake of Mexico;
These thoughts the shade of melancholy throw
On all that else were fair, and gay, and grand
As nature in her glory can bestow.
For never yet, though liberal her hand.
So variously hath she adorned, enriched one land.
"What boots it that from where the level deep
Basks in the tropic sun's o'erpow'ring light
To where yon mountains lift their wintry steep,
All climes, all seasons in one land unite?
What boots it that her buried caves are bright
With wealth untold of gold or silver ore?
While checked by anarchy's perpetual blight
Industry trembles 'mid her hard-earned store,
While rapine riots near in riches stained with gore?
"O sage regenerators of mankind!
Patriots of nimble tongue and systems crude!
How many regal tyrannies combined,
So many fields of massacre have strewed
As you, and your attendant cut-throat brood?
Man works no miracles; long toil, long thought,
Joined to experience, may achieve much good.
But to create new systems out of nought.
Is fit for Him alone, the universe who wrought.
"But what hath such an hour of such a day
To do with human crimes, or earthly gloom?
Far wiser to enjoy while yet we may.
The mock-bird's song, the orange flower's perfume,
The freshness that the sparkling fountain showers.
Let nations reach their glory or their doom.
Spring will return to dress yon orange bowers,
And flowers will still bloom on, and bards will sing of flowers."
